Page 42 of Scorched
"There," she says. Her voice cracks. "The head."
"I know."
The head is swelling. Slowly at first—the crown thickening, widening, the fire magic concentrating in the bulging tip.Golden-hot precum spills from the slit, fire-magic infused, and she gasps at the heat of it inside her. Each thrust pushes the swelling head deeper. Each withdrawal drags the expanded crown against her inner wall—the anterior wall, the sensitive ridge where the nerve endings are dense enough that the pressure is impossible to think through.
She stops being composed.
"Fuck." Her hands scrabble at my arms. Her heels dig into my back. "Fuck, the head—I can feel it?—"
"I know what you can feel." I thrust. The swollen head catches on her inner wall. She bucks. "I can feel your cunt gripping it."
"Don't—don't stop?—"
I don't stop. The head swells further. The golden-hot precum is flowing freely now, each thrust pushing the fire-magic infused fluid deeper into her, the heat building inside her cunt until she's burning from the inside. Her eyes are unfocused. Her lips are parted. The composure she held through the first two orgasms is gone and what's left is the omega underneath—the raw, needing body that four days of claiming has shaped into something that fits mine.
The head catches at the mouth of her cunt on the next withdrawal. Too wide to pull free. The secondary lock.
She feels it. Her eyes snap to mine—wide, alert, the assassin surfacing through the haze.
"You're locked," she says.
"Stage One."
"I know what stage it is." She breathes. Hard. Her cunt is gripping the swollen head, the muscles spasming around the expanded crown, the fire magic pulsing through the contact in sustained waves. "I can feel everything."
Short strokes now. That's all the lock allows—short, deep strokes, the full length unable to withdraw, the ridges workingher cunt in a compressed rhythm that doubles the intensity. She cannot pull away. She cannot shift the angle. She can only take it.
I fuck her in short strokes with the head locked at the mouth of her cunt and the fire magic running through the ridges at full intensity and she comes for the third time—hard, deep, the orgasm rolling through her body in a wave that I feel through the sigil, through the brands, through the fire magic connecting us at every point.
Her arms give out. She drops back against the stone floor. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps. The brands on her skin are blazing—all three, throat and heart and the unfinished wings on her shoulders, lit up from within by the fire magic flooding her body through my cock.
"Knot me," she says. Into the stone. Her cheek against the hot floor. "Knot me before I?—"
"Say it properly."
She lifts her head. Her face is flushed. Her eyes are bright and furious and her cunt is gripping the swollen head of my cock in convulsive spasms and she hates me. I can see it. She hates the asking. She hates that I make her say the words every time. She hates that her body is locked around mine and the fire magic is flooding her and the only thing between her and the knot is the sound of her own voice asking for it.
"Knot me." Quiet. Steady. Not wrecked, not desperate. A decision. "Knot me because I want it. Not because the heat is making me. Because I want your knot inside me."
The base swells.
She takes it differently this time. Not the raw scream of the first night. She breathes through it—controlled breaths, measured, her hands flat on the stone floor. Her cunt stretches around the expanding knot—dense, molten, alive with fire magic, reshaping as it fills every space inside her. Her eyes stayopen. She watches my face while the knot locks us together, and the expression on her face is not pain. Not pleasure.
Satisfaction.
"Good," she says. A rasp. Her cunt adjusting, reshaping, the dense mass of knot and fire magic settling inside her. "Good."
I stare at her. She's lying on the forge floor, my knot locked inside her, my fire magic pouring through the ridges into her cunt, and she just said good the way I say good girl. The way a smith says good to a piece of metal that's taken the right shape.
She's claiming me back.
The forge fire roars. I do not control it. The caldera surges and the fire-thread blazes and the mountain leans into the heat pouring off our bodies. The stone floor beneath us is hot enough to scorch skin. Neither of us notices. Neither of us cares.
I did not plan for this. I planned the rut, the heat, the fire-and-flesh claiming that would bind her to my court. I did not plan for a woman who learns the shape of my cock in four days and takes it with her eyes open and says good when the knot locks.
The knotting lasts three hours.
Three hours on the forge floor with the caldera humming beneath us and the fire-thread pulsing in the walls and my cock locked inside her body. She cannot move without the knot pressing differently inside her. She cannot find a comfortable position. She gives up trying after the first hour and lies on her side with her back against my chest, my body curving around hers, my cock buried deep and the knot holding us fused.
