Page 62 of Fought and Found

The first long lick through her soaked folds pulls a sharp cry from her as I drag my tongue through her folds from bottom to top in one slow, deliberate stroke. She’s drenched, swollen and glistening.

Her taste. Dark and sweet and salt and the biology underneath — her arousal thick on my tongue, coating it, addictive, and my olfactory memory stamps the chemical signature as permanent. My tongue is three degrees hotter than a human’s, and she can feel the difference —her hips jerk at the heat, a bitten-off *oh* that I catalog and file and intend to earn again.

I find her clit. Swollen, engorged, the nerve bundle pulsing under my tongue. I circle it — slow, wide, the broad flat of my tongue — and the purr vibrates directly against it.

Her hips leave the mattress. I press my palm flat on her belly — my hand covers navel to hip, the weight pinning her without effort — and she writhes against the restraint. Not fighting. Chasing.

“The vibration — oh fuck — the vibration is —” Her thighs are shaking. Her hand twists on my horn and the sensation fires through my skull to my cock and I growl against her cunt and the added frequency makes her back arch off the bed.

I narrow my focus. The tip of my tongue spearing deep into her tight heat as my nose grinds against her. I vary the speed. Slow makes her moan — long, drawn, her head pressing back into the pillow. Fast makes her gasp and buck against my restraining hand, her hips rolling, grinding against my mouth, taking what she needs from me. Good. Let her take. Everything I am is hers to use.

“There — right there — don’t you dare stop —”

I slide two thick fingers inside, stretching her wide. Blunt, thick — my fingers are not an insignificant stretch and the feel of her walls gripping me is scalding, wet, muscular. She gasps at the width. I curl against the textured spot on her front wall and press while my tongue works her clit and the dual stimulation draws a sound from her that I will replay in my memory until I am dead.

“Another.” She is breathless and demanding and glorious. “I can take another.”

I add another finger and the stretch makes her whimper — a high, broken sound — and her walls grip all three fingers with a pressure that makes my cock throb against the mattress.

I devour her. Tongue spearing deep into her heat, then back to her clit; fingers fucking her relentlessly against that spongy spot each time; the constant vibration of my purr pressed against her clit. Her sounds are escalating — broken syllables, my name, profanity I did not know she possessed, andloveygasped like a prayer.

She comes hard on my mouth with her thighs clamped around my head, hips grinding frantically as she floods my tongue. The scream that she muffles with her own hand and then gives up muffling. I feel it — the rhythmic clenching around my fingers, the pulse against my tongue, the fresh flood of her release coating my tongue and chin. I do not stop. I work her through it and straight into the next — I can taste the chemistry shifting — and I press my fingers deeper and curve them harder and her body bows off the mattress like she’s been electrified.

The second orgasm rolls through her in a long, shuddering wave that makes her walls grip my fingers hard enough to ache. A third — smaller, unexpected, drawn out by a deliberate shift of my tongue — makes her whole body tremble and her voice crack on a sound that is half laugh, half sob.

“Xor—fuck—please—I need you inside me right now or I’m going to lose my mind.”

I rise over her. My mouth is wet with her. Her taste on my tongue, my chin, my jaw. Her slick glistening on my fingers. My cock is throbbing, dark crimson, ridges prominent and flushed, the heavy knot already swollen and leaking. The evidence of what she does to me, on full display.

“You’ll feel each one.”

She cups my face. “Give me everything.”

She reaches between us. Her fingers wrap me — they don’t close fully, the girth exceeding her grip, and the sight of her small hand stroking the dark crimson of me nearly undoes me before we have begun. She guides the thick head to her entrance. The wet heat of her against me makes us both still.

“All of you,” she breathes, eyes locked on mine. “Don’t hold back.”

I push in.

The first ridge stretches her open. Her mouth falls open on a gasp. Each subsequent ridge drags along her walls, forcing her wider, filling her completely. By the time the knot presses against her entrance and her walls grip it — tight, slick, hot — and she gasps. Not pain. Fullness. Her body squeezing the ridge with a pressure that sends electricity up my shaft into my spine. She is panting, nails digging into my shoulders.

“Breathe,” I growl. “Take your mate.”

“More.” Her legs wrap my waist, ankles barely crossing behind me.

The second ridge. It catches at her entrance — the raised edge dragging against the ring of muscle — and then slides past, and she moans, her nails digging into my biceps. The catch-and-release of each ridge entering is a specific, rhythmic sensation — a staccato of pressure and yield that I feel through the shaft, and she feels as each band stretches and fills her.

Third ridge. Fourth. Deeper. I am shaking. She is shaking. Her walls are fluttering around me — involuntary pulses, her body adjusting, accommodating, stretching around an anatomy wider and more textured than anything human. Each inch draws a sound from her — a climbing scale of moans, louder as I go deeper.

“You’re so — god — I can feel every one of them — each one — it’s like —” She cannot finish. The fifth ridge passes the spot on her frontwall and her eyes roll back and her spine lifts off the mattress and a raw, guttural sound tears from her throat.

“Right there — stay — no, keep going — more —” Her heels dig into my lower back. She is contradicting herself. Her body wants the ridge against that spot and also wants more of me and the conflict is making her frantic. Her hips tilt, grinding against the ridge, and the friction makes us both groan.

I give her more. Slowly. The sixth ridge, the seventh — deeper than I thought she could take, and she takes it, her body yielding around me in wet increments, her walls pulsing with each new inch. I am watching her face — the flush from chest to hairline, her mouth open, her eyes glazed and dark, tears leaking from the corners not from pain but from the overwhelming fullness of being stretched around something this size.

The knot reaches her entrance.

She feels it — the swell pressing against her, wider than the shaft, demanding more than the ridges asked. Her eyes focus. Find mine.