Page 44 of Shadowed

Not to the room. Not to the court. To her.

I push in.

18

LILITH

He pushes in and I stop being a person.

The stretch is—God. He's enormous and the cock doesn't just enter, it moves. Adjusts. Rotates as it sinks into me, the prehensile curve finding the angle that makes my vision go white. I'm full. So full my lungs can't expand and my mouth is open and the sound coming out of me is not a word.

It's barely a sound. Just air, pushed out of me by the sheer size of what's pushing in.

"Breathe."

I can't. He's too deep. The velvety surface drags against my front wall and something behind my navel lights up and my back arches off the shadow-cradle beneath me and the moan that tears out of me is long and wrecked and shameless.

"There." Level. Dark. Like he's confirmed a location on a map. "That's the spot that's going to make you beg."

"I don't—beg —"

His cock curls. Presses the spot. Holds.

I beg.

Not words. A sound—a mewling, gasping, broken thing from the back of my throat. My hips buck against him. My handsscrabble at the stone. I'm wet, I'm dripping around him, slick running down my thighs and pooling beneath me and I can hear it. The obscene wet sound of his cock shifting inside me, my body giving him everything it has.

The shadow tendrils begin.

Dozens. Too many to track. My wrists—pinned above my head against the stone. My ankles—wrapped, held apart. The arches of my feet. The soft skin behind my knees.

One wraps around my throat.

Not squeezing. Resting. A cool collar of shadow against my pulse, and the pressure—barely there, just enough to feel, just enough to know it could tighten—makes my cunt clench so hard around his cock that he groans.

"You like that." Not a question.

The tendril at my throat pulses. Tightens a fraction. My airflow narrows—not cut off, compressed—and the rush goes straight between my legs. My hips jerk. My moan comes out strangled, thin, desperate.

"Again." He says it to the shadow at my throat. It obeys. Another pulse. Another fraction tighter. My vision sparks at the edges and my cunt floods and a whimper leaks out of me that sounds like it belongs to someone I don't recognise.

Two more tendrils find my nipples.

They circle first. Slow, cool, the shadow-tips tracing the hard peaks with a feather touch that makes me arch. Then they tighten. Pinch. Pull.

I scream.

The sensation shoots from my nipples straight to my clit. My body convulses—hips bucking, cunt clenching, the shadow collar pulsing in time with the ones at my nipples. His cock rides the contractions, the prehensile curl adjusting to every clench, pressing deeper when I tighten, pulling back when I gasp, working me like I'm a lock he's spent seven centuries learning.

His wings fold forward.

Vast. Black. The membrane comes down and the room disappears. I'm enclosed in living darkness—his wings warm against my skin, blood-heated—and the contrast with the cool tendrils at my nipples is so sharp my brain stops. Nothing visible but his eyes. Two points of lightless black in the black.

"I can't —"

"You can."

His cock curls. Finds the angle. My vision whites out.