Page 107 of Maksym

I had built cases around that truth in human language. Victims who went still. Victims who survived by pleasing. Victims whose silence was later dragged into court and called permission by people who knew better and chose not to.

Onstage, the witch’s body began to soften again. The wolf held the handle against her, applying small, steady pressure.

“Color?” he asked.

Her answer came drawn out, breathless. “Green.”

He pressed further. Slow. Careful. Relentless in the way water could be relentless over stone. The witch moaned into the leather. My fingers dug into Maksym’s sleeve. If I left marks on a vampire king’s suit, I hoped it was insured.

The handle disappeared a little more. Her body took it. Her back bowed. One of her feet flexed hard against the restraint, then relaxed.

“Good,” the wolf told her. His voice had dropped, rough and tender. “That’s it.”

Maksym’s thumb moved once over my knuckles. My lips parted. No sound came out.

The wolf kept one hand on the crop, holding it steady, while the other went to the waistband of his loose pants.

I knew what was coming. That did not prepare me.

He pushed the pants down just far enough for his cock to spring free, thick and hard against the dark hair at his groin.

My breath caught audibly.

Maksym heard it. Everyone in the zip code probably heard it, if supernatural hearing was as rude as I suspected.

Heat burned across my chest and up my throat.

Onstage, the wolf positioned himself behind the witch. One hand held the crop handle steady at her back entrance. The other guided himself between her legs. He rubbed the head of his cock through her wetness once, twice, making her hips jerk against the restraints.

“Color?” he asked.

“Green. Please.”

Please. The word left her like a prayer.

He entered her from behind in one slow thrust. The witch cried out. Not pain.

I knew the difference between a cry pulled from terror and one torn out of a body overwhelmed by sensation it had asked for and could stop.

This was not pain.

The wolf stopped once he was seated deep inside her. His head tipped back, throat working. For a moment, all that size, all that power, all that animal strength was held in check by the woman beneath him and the colors she had given him.

My body clenched around nothing.

Bohdan’s voice returned, lower now, threaded with heat. “He gives her fullness at both entrances. The crop remains steady. His body does the moving. She does not have to choose between taking and being taken. She is allowed to receive.”

Allowed to receive. My mouth had gone dry.

The wolf began to move.

Slow at first. His hips withdrew and rolled forward again. The witch moaned with each thrust, her body shifting against the bench, breasts pressed to leather, hands flexing in restraints. The crop handle stayed where he held it, a constant pressure while his cock moved in and out of her pussy with increasing force.

He bent over her, his broad body covering hers without crushing. “You’re taking me so well,” he said. “Both of us. Good girl. That’s it. Come for me.”

The witch’s moans broke apart.

Her hips tried to lift. The restraints held her in place, and the bench held the rest of her, and he kept moving, deep and steady, praising her through it.