Page 45 of Shadowed

The orgasm doesn't build. It hits. One breath I'm forming a sentence and the next my body is clenching so hard my spine arches and my mouth opens on a scream and the shadow collar squeezes and the scream comes out as a choked gasp and the orgasm tears through me—cunt, belly, chest, throat, behind my eyes.

I'm gone.

His cock keeps moving. Through it. Through the clenching. Pressing where the pressure makes it worse. Makes it more. My body still coming. His cock still moving. The tendrils still pulling. And I —

"Again," he says.

"I can't —"

The shadow at my throat bears down. My air thins. His cock hits the deep place and holds. The tendrils at my nipples pinch—both at once—and the second orgasm stacks on top of the first.

My body convulses in the dark. The sound I make is his name.

The shadows respond—every tendril tightening, his wings pressing closer, the darkness thickening until I'm wrapped in nothing but him.

"Again."

"Please —"

"Please what?" His mouth at my ear. His breath cool against my burning neck. "Please more?"

A tendril slides down my belly. Finds my clit. Presses.

"Please stop?"

The tendril circles. His cock pulls back—slow, the velvety surface dragging against every inch of me—and slams back in. The sound I make is a grunt, guttural, ripped from somewhere below language.

"Please—fuck—please —"

"Please fuck you?"

His hips snap. Hard. The prehensile tip finds the deep spot and grinds. The tendril on my clit presses. The ones on my nipples pull. The one at my throat squeezes. I come screaming with no air, the orgasm silent and enormous, my body clamping around him in waves while my mouth works soundlessly in the dark.

The tendril at my throat releases. Air floods back. I gasp—a ragged, sobbing inhale—and the relief of air mixing with the tail of the orgasm shakes me apart.

He changes rhythm. Slower. Deeper. Each stroke a full withdrawal—the cock tracing my insides on the way out, the velvety head catching my opening, stretching me again on the way in. The sounds are obscene. Wet. Slick squelching around his cock with every thrust, my body so drenched that his cock slides through me like I'm made of nothing but heat and want.

"Listen to that." His voice at my ear, rough. Not controlled. "Listen to how wet you are for me."

I moan. Moan. Grip his horns. Hold on while he fucks me in long ruinous strokes and the tendrils work my nipples and my clit and the one at my throat rests—a threat, a promise, waiting.

"Every male who comes after me will feel like nothing." His hips roll. Deep. His cock curls against the front wall and holds."You'll measure every touch against this. Every mouth. Every cock. None of them will reach where I reach."

"Shut—up —"

"You're mine." Stated while his cock finds the angle that stops language. "Your cunt knows it. Your body knows it. Those locks knew it."

"I said shut —"

The knot.

It starts at the base. A swelling—dense, heavy, shadow-thick. Not like the thrust. Something slower. Something that pushes into me in a rolling wave, the base of his cock expanding, widening, and my body opens around it and the stretch —

Oh God.

The stretch. Past full. Past too much. The knot swells wider. My body opens wider. I'm at the edge of breaking and the knot keeps swelling and I cannot breathe and I cannot move and I —

"Breathe." His mouth at my throat. His teeth. Not biting. Resting. Waiting.