Liquid midnight and a familiar gaze
# A God’s Gown, A King’s Gaze The tavern was warm and loud, a haven carved from wood and laughter. Elara—Lethea to those she smiled at—stood near the hearth, the glow of the fire almost mimicking the faint, ethereal luminescence that somet
Chapter 1
The tavern was warm and loud, a haven carved from wood and laughter. Elara—Lethea to those she smiled at—stood near the hearth, the glow of the fire almost mimicking the faint, ethereal luminescence that sometimes shimmered under her pale gold skin.
Tonight, she wore a gown of liquid midnight. It wrapped around her curvy form, a backless column of silk that tied at her throat and waist, with high, daring slits that revealed the sleek lines of her legs up to her thighs. The fabric was so light it floated around her ankles as she shifted, the iridescent threads catching the light like her hidden wings might. Her pixie-cut black hair was sharp, her makeup dramatic—dark lashes, a vertical labret piercing gleaming rose gold through her full lower lip. Her nails were almond-shaped claws, sharp and polished. She felt beautiful. She felt like a promise.
It had been years of these moments.
Lethea remembered a spring afternoon, the mountain sun warm on her shoulders. She’d worn a gown of sheer, sky-blue layers, the hem asymmetrical, short in the front with a waterfall of fabric cascading behind her as she traced through the forest, checking her protective wards. She’d seen Theron then, sitting alone on a stone outcrop, his long black hair tied back, his muscular frame bent over a piece of metal he was crafting. His blue eyes had lifted, met hers across the distance. A jolt, electric and silent. She’d smiled, a playful, shy curve of her lips. He’d nodded, serious, and looked back to his work. She’d traced away, the gown floating around her, feeling the cold sting of dismissal sharper than any winter wind.
Another time, in the tavern itself, she’d chosen a dress of crimson, figure-hugging, with cutouts at her ribs. She’d danced a little, a subtle raggaeton sway to the music, knowing he was at his usual table with his friends—Diana, his sister, and the other dwarves who teased him gently about his solitude. Lethea had approached, her voice amplified softly by her enchanted necklace, asking about the new forge designs. Theron’s answers were kind, affectionate, but his gaze kept slipping from her glowing eyes—today a soft gold from a mix of hope and frustration—to the floor. When she leaned in slightly, the scent of her, the faint glow of her skin, he shifted back, evasive. “You should… attend your duties, Lethea,” he’d said, his voice low. The protector of all, dismissed. She’d traced home alone, the crimson fabric feeling like a weight.
Tonight was different. The longing had fermented into a quiet, stubborn resolve. The depression that sometimes whispered she was worthless, why did no one love her, was reframed in the sheer audacity of her own appearance. She was a goddess. She was a seer. She was here.
She watched him from across the room. Theron was deep in conversation with Diana, a tankard in his scarred hand, his beard trimmed close. His friends laughed around him, but his shoulders held a tension Lethea knew intimately—the weight of loneliness, of a trauma so severe it had locked a part of him away for years. She saw the glances he stole at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. The possessive, observant darkening of his blue eyes.
Lethea took a slow breath. She moved.
The crowd parted for her unconsciously, the ethereal grace of her movement undeniable. She didn’t trace; she walked, the black gown whispering against her shaved skin, the jewelry at her navel and nipples catching the firelight. She arrived at his table. Diana looked up, a knowing, supportive smile touching her lips.
“Theron,” Lethea said, her voice a melodic ripple. “The wards on the eastern pass are holding strong.”
It was a normal opening. A guardian’s report. Theron looked up, his eyes widening slightly, taking in the full, daring vision of her—the large breasts outlined by the wrapped silk, the sharp nails, the piercing through her lip. His own full lips parted.
And then, without pause, Lethea did what she had never dared. In a fluid, contortionist’s grace, she placed one hand on the back of his chair and simply settled herself into his lap. The silk of her gown pooled around them, her weight warm and real against his muscular thighs. She felt the hard, powerful line of his body beneath her, the size difference making her feel both delicate and dominantly present. She was in his space. She was claiming it.
The tavern fell into a stunned, watchful silence. Voyeurism and exhibitionism, ignited in a single act.
Theron froze. His breath stopped. His hands, which had been resting on the table, clenched. Lethea looked down at him, her eyes glowing a deep, possessive violet. She leaned in closer, her long canines just visible, her rose-gold pierced tongue flicking out to wet her full lips.
“You’ve avoided this conversation for a century, my king,” she whispered, the dirty talk beginning low and intimate. “I’m tired of waiting.”
Under her, she felt the gradual, electric progression of his response—the tension in his body shifting from shock to something hotter, darker. Dominant. His blue eyes locked on hers, no longer evading, but holding, consuming. The simmer beneath the surface had finally boiled over, and they hadn’t even touched. Yet every glance was a promise, and every word was a fuse.
Chapter 2
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Every eye in the tavern was fixed on them—the goddess in her gown of liquid midnight perched in the lap of the stoic, scarred king. Lethea felt the solid heat of him beneath her, the powerful muscles of his thighs tensing. She watched the storm gather in his blue eyes: shock, then a slow, undeniable hunger.
His hands, which had been clenched on the table, finally moved. One came to rest, heavy and warm, on the silk covering her hip. The other lifted, calloused fingers brushing her sharp jawline, tracing the line of it down to her chin. His touch was a question, a claim.
“A century,” Theron repeated, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her body. “You think I was avoiding a conversation, Lethea?”
He didn’t push her away. He held her there, his gaze dropping to her mouth, to the rose-gold glint of her piercing. The dirty talk had been her opening gambit; his was the possessive weight of his palm anchoring her to him.
“I saw you,” he continued, his thumb stroking her lower lip. “In the forest, in sunlight, in crimson. Every time. I watched you float through my world like a dream I was too broken to catch.” His admission was raw, stripping away the evasions of years. “You asked about forges and wards, and all I could think was how your skin glowed. How your laughter felt like spring. How you deserved more than a man who…” He trailed off, the old pain shadowing his face.
Lethea’s heart ached. Her eyes softened from possessive violet to a warm, understanding gold. She leaned into his touch, her long canines catching the firelight as she spoke. “You think I don’t know your scars, Theron? I *see* things. I saw your loneliness. It never made you less. It made your kindness a choice.” She shifted slightly in his lap, the movement subtle but intentional, pressing her warmth more firmly against the growing hardness she could feel beneath the layers of their clothes. A soft, ragged sigh escaped him.
Around them, the tavern’s patrons slowly returned to their murmured conversations, giving the pair a bubble of charged privacy. Diana wiped a tear from her eye, smiling broadly at a friend.
“No more avoiding,” Lethea whispered, her voice amplified only for him by the magic at her throat. Her sharp nails, polished and dangerous, traced a light path up the column of his neck. “Talk to me. Here. Now.”
His hand on her hip tightened, pulling her infinitesimally closer. The dominant energy she’d sensed now radiated from him, a king finally claiming his domain. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, his beard brushing her cheek. “What would you have me say, my guardian?” The endearment was a vow. “That I want to feel if your wings are as soft as they look? That I’ve dreamed of the taste of that piercing on your tongue?”
The words were pure, unfiltered desire. Lethea shivered, a thrill of submission and power coiling low in her belly. This was the conversation. This was the start. She turned her head, her lips a breath from his. “Show me,” she breathed. “Don’t just tell me.”
His answer was to close the final, torturous gap, his full lips meeting hers in a kiss that was not shy, not playful, but devastatingly serious. It was a century of sunlit avoidance ending in the warm, loud dark of a tavern, with his people watching and her gown pooled around them like a starless sky.
Chapter 3
The kiss was a revelation. It was a century of longing distilled into the press of his full lips against hers, the scratch of his beard, the faint taste of ale and iron. Lethea melted into it, her sharp claws sinking gently into the nape of his neck, holding him close. When he broke it, it was only to breathe her name against her mouth. “Lethea.”
Around them, the crowd’s cheers and laughter faded into a distant, muffled hum. Their world had shrunk to the heat of his lap, the firm grip of his hands.
As the last of the noise died away, Theron’s hands moved. They slid from her hips, possessively up the silk of her gown, his calloused palms tracing the outside of her thighs. The fabric whispered as he pushed it aside, his fingers finding the bare, shaved skin beneath the high slits. His touch was hot, deliberate, mapping the sleek curve of her leg up to the apex of her thigh. He pulled her tighter against him, and she gasped softly at the hard, prominent ridge of his cock straining against his trousers, pressed firmly against her core.
His voice was a low, possessive growl vibrating against the shell of her ear, his breath stirring her pixie-cut hair. “A century of watching you in those beautiful dresses, floating through my halls like a ghost I couldn’t touch,” he murmured, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her inner thighs. “And now I finally get to feel what’s underneath.”
Lethea shuddered, her head falling back in a silent moan. Her eyes, glowing a deep, submissive violet, fluttered shut. “All that time… you were watching?”
“Every second,” he confessed, his lips brushing her temple. One hand remained high on her thigh, a brand of ownership, while the other rose to cup her breast through the silk. His thumb swept over her peaked nipple, feeling the hard outline of her rose gold piercing beneath the fabric. “Watching you dance. Watching you laugh. Watching the way your skin glowed when you were happy. It was a special kind of torture, my guardian.”
“You could have ended it,” she breathed, arching into his touch. The dirty talk was a live wire between them. “Any time. One word.”
“I was a coward,” he said, his tone rough with regret and desire. “I thought my scars… my silence… made me unworthy of a goddess.”
She turned her head, capturing his lips again in a fierce, biting kiss, her long canines grazing his lower lip. “You are a king,” she whispered fiercely against his mouth. “And you are mine. Your scars are a part of you. I want all of you.”
His answer was a deep, hungry sound. His hand left her breast, trailing down her stomach to the knot of silk at her waist. “Show me,” he demanded, echoing her own words, his blue eyes dark with a dominant fire. “Show me what’s been mine for a hundred years.”
Chapter 4
Theron’s hands slid under her backless gown, his large, calloused palms hot against her skin. His fingers found the faint, silvery scars along her spine—old wounds from battles long past, healed but forever remembered. He traced them with a reverence that made her shiver, then claimed her mouth in another rough, desperate kiss. When he broke it, his lips brushed hers as he murmured, “Show me everything.”
Before she could answer, he was moving. In one powerful motion, he stood, lifting her effortlessly. The world blurred for a heartbeat—a dizzying shift of firelight and shadow—before her back met the solid stone of the nearest wall. His body pinned hers, the hard planes of his chest against her breasts, his muscular thigh wedged between her legs. The cool stone against her bare back was a shocking contrast to the heat he radiated.
He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his beard scratching her sensitive skin. Then he bit down, not hard enough to break the skin, but with a possessive pressure that drew a sharp, wanton cry from her lips. His other hand, which had been splayed on her hip, slipped between her legs, pushing aside the silk of her gown. His fingers found her bare, wet heat, and a ragged groan vibrated against her throat.
“So ready for me,” he growled, his voice thick with triumph. His fingers stroked her, exploring her slick folds with an intent that was both tender and demanding. “All this time… this is what you kept hidden.”
Lethea could only gasp, her head thrown back against the wall. Her claws scraped against the stone as she clutched at him, her body arching into his touch. The voyeuristic thrill of being taken like this, in the semi-public shadow of the tavern wall with his people a murmur in the background, was intoxicating. “Only for you,” she managed to breathe, her eyes glowing a submissive, desperate violet. “Always… for you.”
His finger circled her clit, applying just the right pressure to make her knees buckle. He held her up, his body her only support. “Good,” he rumbled, his teeth grazing her earlobe. “Now let them hear who you belong to.”
Chapter 5
His words, raw and commanding, were a key unlocking a deeper part of her. A shiver of pure submission wracked Lethea’s frame, her glowing violet eyes rolling back as a low, wanton moan tore from her throat. The coarse grind of his clothed erection against her bare, soaked core was an exquisite torture, a promise written in pressure and friction.
Theron’s large hands gripped her hips with a possessive strength that bordered on bruising, pressing her firmly against the unforgiving stone. He held her there, a king pinning his goddess to the wall of his realm, and repeated the motion, a slow, deliberate grind that drew another helpless cry from her lips.
“That’s it,” he growled against her neck, his beard scraping her sensitive skin. “Let them hear. Let my entire mountain know their guardian screams for me.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. One hand released her hip, sliding up the column of her throat to the delicate knot of silk at her neckline. With a single, powerful tug, he tore it. The fragile fabric gave way with a soft rip, the gown falling open to expose her full breasts to the warm firelight and his hungry gaze. Her rose gold piercings glinted, her nipples already peaked and begging for his touch.
A ragged sound escaped him. He ducked his head, capturing one beaded peak in his mouth, his tongue flicking over the cool metal before drawing the sensitive flesh in with a hot, sucking pull. Lethea cried out, her sharp claws digging into his broad shoulders as lightning shot straight to her core. His other hand found its way back between her legs, his fingers delving deeper into her slick heat, stroking and circling with an intent that had her trembling on the edge.
“So wet,” he murmured against her breast, the vibration making her arch. “Dripping for me. My perfect guardian.” His fingers worked her faster, matching the rhythm of his mouth on her other nipple. The dual assault was overwhelming; the voyeuristic thrill of their semi-public display fused with the intense physical sensation.
She was close, so close she could feel the tension coiling tight like a spring within her. Her world narrowed to the scrape of stone on her back, the heat of his mouth, the skilled pressure of his fingers. A high whine built in her throat.
“Please,” she begged, the word shredded by pleasure. “Theron… my king…”
He lifted his head, his blue eyes dark and feral with triumph. “Come for me,” he ordered, his voice a graveled command. “Now.” He pressed harder with his thumb on her clit and curled two fingers inside her.
It was all she needed. The spring snapped.
Lethea shattered with a sharp cry she didn’t try to stifle, her body convulsing against the wall as waves of electric pleasure crashed through her. Her wings burst forth in an uncontrolled rush of iridescent black feathers that framed them both in a shimmering canopy for one brilliant moment before receding back under her skin with a shiver.
Theron held her through it all, gentling his touch as she rode out the pulses against his hand and thigh. When she finally sagged against him, boneless and breathless, he gathered her close to his chest.
The tavern was silent once more; every soul had heard what they were meant to hear.
Lethea pressed into him as he scooped up what remained of what had once been an elegant gown around them both and then it wasn't...
Chapter 6
The sound of the cheering crowd hit Lethea’s senses like a wave as Theron spun her. Her back slammed against the solid wall of his chest, his arms banding around her waist, holding her upright before the sea of faces. Her torn gown hung open, baring her breasts to the firelight and the hungry, approving gazes of his people. Voyeurism and exhibitionism fused into a potent, heady drug.
“Show them who owns you,” Theron growled into her ear, his voice a dark vibration against her skin.
One of his large hands splayed possessively over her stomach, holding her firmly against him. The other slid down, past the ruined silk, his fingers delving through her curls to find her soaked, sensitive flesh without hesitation. A ragged gasp tore from her lips, her head falling back against his shoulder.
“Look at them,” he commanded, his fingers circling her clit with rough, knowing pressure. “Let them see.”
Her glowing violet eyes, hazy with renewed pleasure, forced themselves open. She met the gazes of dwarves and friends—Diana, whose smile was proud and fierce; the comrades who had teased Theron for a century. They were not jeering. They were celebrating. Their king was claiming his goddess, and they were his witnesses.
Theron’s fingers plunged into her, curling deep, and his thumb continued its relentless circles. The dual sensation, so soon after her first climax, was overwhelmingly intense. Her body jerked in his hold, a thin, high whine escaping her.
“You are mine,” he whispered, the words filthy and tender all at once. “Every scream, every shudder. Give it to them. Now.”
He increased the pace, his fingers fucking her with a hard, driving rhythm that matched the pulse of the tavern’s music. The pressure built again, swift and devastating. Lethea’s claws dug into the arm wrapped around her ribs. She couldn’t look away from the crowd now; their focused attention, their shared energy, became a catalyst.
“Theron!” she cried out, her voice amplified by magic and raw need.
“That’s it,” he urged, his breath hot on her neck. “Come for your king. Come for your people.”
The orgasm ripped through her with a force that stole her vision. Her back arched, a raw, guttural scream torn from her throat as her wings erupted once more in a dazzling burst of iridescent black feathers, framing their joined bodies in a tableau of power and submission. Pleasure electrocuted her nerves, wave after wave, as she convulsed against him, utterly spent and publicly claimed.
He held her through it, his hand gentling but not leaving her, a steady anchor as the cheering swelled into a roaring approval that shook the rafters.
Slowly, her wings retracted. Her body went limp, supported entirely by his strength. He turned her in his arms, cradling her face, wiping a tear of overwhelming release from her cheek with his thumb.
“Mine,” he said softly, for her ears only, the possessiveness now a bedrock promise. The crowd’s noise faded to a warm hum around them, a new chapter definitively begun.
Chapter 7
The approval of the crowd was a living thing, a rhythm that pulsed through the stone floor and into Theron’s blood. He held Lethea close as she trembled, her second climax still echoing in the soft cries against his neck. The possessive fire in him was far from banked; it demanded a deeper, more primal claim.
“Again,” he murmured, his voice a dark command only she could hear. Before she could form a question, he turned her in his arms, her back to his chest once more. With a firm hand on her hip, he guided her forward until her palms and forearms were pressed flat against the warm wood of the tavern wall. The torn silk of her gown pooled uselessly at her waist.
His other hand gathered the ravaged fabric, hiking it up to bare her completely to the heat of the room and his gaze. The high, proud curve of her ass was unveiled, and he drank in the sight, his cock aching and thick against her lower back.
“Theron—” she breathed, her voice a mix of awe and anticipation.
He answered with action. Spitting roughly into his palm, he slicked himself, the sound crude and intimate. He positioned his head at her entrance, that slick, welcoming heat he’d only just touched with his fingers. With no further warning, he pushed forward, burying himself inside her in one relentless, claiming stroke.
Lethea’s back arched, a sharp cry torn from her lips as he filled her, the stretch exquisitely perfect. At the same moment, he bent his head and sank his teeth into the smooth, glowing skin of her shoulder, a possessive bite that walked the line between pleasure and pain. The dual sensation—the deep, full invasion and the sharp, grounding mark—made her knees buckle. He held her up, his hands gripping her hips like iron.
Then he began to move.
His thrusts were rough, powerful pistons that drove her firmly against the wall with each forward surge. The rhythm was not his own; he took it from the crowd. Their cheers, their stomping feet, the pounding music—Theron fucked her to that beat, making her body a part of the celebration. Each deep, withdrawing slide drew a gasp; each hard, forward plunge stole a moan.
“They see you,” he grunted against her bitten shoulder, his breath scalding. “They see my goddess taking her king. Let them hear you.”
Overwhelmed, overstimulated, and utterly possessed, Lethea could do nothing but obey. Her cries rose, melodic and broken, each driving thrust wringing his name from her lips. “Theron! Oh, gods… Theron!”
Her inner muscles clamped around him, fluttering wildly, signaling the precipice. He redoubled his pace, the slapping of skin joining the tavern’s roar. The coil inside her snapped with a violence that blinded her. Her ecstasy was a silent scream for a heartbeat before her voice returned, raw and worshipful, crying out his name as her vision whited out and her wings burst forth in a final, radiant explosion of light and shadow.
Feeling her convulse around him, Theron followed her over. With a final, deep grind, he spilled himself inside her, his own roar lost in the din as he marked her within, his rough thrusts slowing to a possessive stillness as they both trembled against the wall.
Slowly, he softened inside her, his bite easing to a tender kiss on the bruised skin. He kept her pinned there, supported, as their breathing slowly synced with the fading cheers. The crowd’s energy shifted to warm, respectful murmurs, granting them a bubble of intimacy in the aftermath.
He nuzzled her damp temple. “Mine,” he whispered again, the word now a satisfied, permanent truth etched into skin and soul. She could only nod, boneless and replete, held securely between her king and the wall that had witnessed their final barrier fall.
Chapter 8
With a low, possessive rumble, Theron scooped Lethea’s trembling body into his arms. The crowd’s warmth was a soft blanket against her skin as he carried her the few steps to a sturdy oak table, clearing it with a sweep of his forearm.
He laid her down gently on the solid wood, the surface cool against her heated back. Her torn gown was a ruin of silk around her waist. He pushed the tattered fabric aside with a reverence that contradicted his next action: his large, calloused hands hooked under her knees, spreading her thighs wide and holding them apart, baring her completely to the flickering firelight and his hungry gaze.
Before she could draw a full breath, he was there.
Theron buried his face between her legs, his mouth a brand of wet, rough heat. There was no gentle exploration—this was a claiming. His tongue lashed her, a broad, demanding stroke that drew a shattered cry from her lips. He followed it with the careful, sharp pressure of his teeth, grazing her most sensitive flesh, the hint of pain magnifying the pleasure into something blinding.
Lethea arched off the table, her back bowing, a strangled sob of his name escaping her. Her sharp claws dug into the wood, scoring deep grooves as he worked her with relentless expertise, his tongue circling and plunging, his stubble a delicious abrasion against her inner thighs. The coil inside her, already frayed from earlier, wound tight with terrifying speed.
“Theron… please!” she begged, her wings straining against her skin, the need for release a physical agony.
He growled against her, the vibration catapulting her to the edge. With one final, sucking kiss, he pushed her over.
Her climax detonated. Light erupted from her as her wings burst forth in an uncontrollable, magnificent flare of iridescent black feathers, flooding the tavern with radiant shadow. Her entire body convulsed, her cry long and wordless, her claws splintering the oak beneath her as wave after wave of ecstasy tore through her, leaving her shuddering and spent on the table.
Slowly, Theron lifted his head, his lips and beard glistening. He looked down at her, her wings splayed beneath her like a fallen angel’s, her chest heaving. His blue eyes were dark with satisfied pride.
He leaned over her, caging her with his arms, and kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue. “Mine,” he murmured against her swollen lips, the word a final, gentle seal. “Always.”
Chapter 9
With a low, possessive rumble, Theron scooped Lethea’s trembling body into his arms. The crowd’s warmth was a soft blanket against her skin as he carried her the few steps to a sturdy oak table, clearing it with a sweep of his forearm.
He laid her down gently on the solid wood, the surface cool against her heated back. Her torn gown was a ruin of silk around her waist. He pushed the tattered fabric aside with a reverence that contradicted his next action: his large, calloused hands hooked under her knees, spreading her thighs wide and holding them apart, baring her completely to the flickering firelight and his hungry gaze.
Before she could draw a full breath, he was there.
Theron buried his face between her legs, his mouth a brand of wet, rough heat. There was no gentle exploration—this was a claiming. His tongue lashed her, a broad, demanding stroke that drew a shattered cry from her lips. He followed it with the careful, sharp pressure of his teeth, grazing her most sensitive flesh, the hint of pain magnifying the pleasure into something blinding.
Lethea arched off the table, her back bowing, a strangled sob of his name escaping her. Her sharp claws dug into the wood, scoring deep grooves as he worked her with relentless expertise, his tongue circling and plunging, his stubble a delicious abrasion against her inner thighs. The coil inside her, already frayed from earlier, wound tight with terrifying speed.
“Theron… please!” she begged, her wings straining against her skin, the need for release a physical agony.
He growled against her, the vibration catapulting her to the edge. With one final, sucking kiss, he pushed her over.
Her climax detonated. Light erupted from her as her wings burst forth in an uncontrollable, magnificent flare of iridescent black feathers, flooding the tavern with radiant shadow. Her entire body convulsed, her cry long and wordless, her claws splintering the oak beneath her as wave after wave of ecstasy tore through her, leaving her shuddering and spent on the table.
Slowly, Theron lifted his head, his lips and beard glistening. He looked down at her, her wings splayed beneath her like a fallen angel’s, her chest heaving. His blue eyes were dark with satisfied pride.
He leaned over her, caging her with his arms, and kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue. “Mine,” he murmured against her swollen lips, the word a final, gentle seal. “Always.”
He didn’t let her rest. As she lay panting, her wings twitching with aftershocks, he stood between her spread legs, his hands moving to the laces of his trousers. The sound of the leather unlacing was obscenely loud in the quiet tavern. He freed himself, and Lethea’s glowing violet eyes widened at the sight of him—thick, heavy, and already slick from her own arousal.
With no preamble, he guided himself to her soaked entrance. He held her gaze, a silent question in his possessive stare. She answered by tilting her hips up in open invitation, a needy whimper in her throat.
Theron drove into her in one deep, claiming stroke.
Lethea cried out, her back arching off the table again as he filled her completely, the stretch a perfect, burning fullness. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a brutal, punishing rhythm from the start, each powerful thrust slamming the table into the floor with a heavy thud. The wood groaned in protest. His hands gripped her hips hard, his fingers surely leaving bruises on her pale gold skin, holding her in place as he fucked her with a raw, untamed hunger.
“This is what you wanted,” he grunted, his voice thick with strain. “To be mine. To be taken. Look at you.” His pace was relentless, the slap of skin on skin echoing. Lethea could only cling to the edges of the table, her wings fluttering helplessly beneath her as he pistoned into her, each thrust hitting a spot deep inside that made her see stars. Her cries were constant, a broken litany of his name and pleas for more.
He leaned over her, capturing her lips in a searing, messy kiss, his thrusts never slowing. “You feel… divine,” he gasped against her mouth. “So tight. Wrapped around my cock. Taking me so well.” The filthy praise, the sheer physical domination, stoked the fire in her core back into an inferno. She could feel another climax building, impossibly fast, coiling tighter with every deep, grinding stroke.
Her claws found his shoulders, digging in as she met his rhythm, lifting her hips to take him even deeper. The world narrowed to the feel of him, the sound of him, the sight of his enraptured face above her. She was unraveling, completely his.
Chapter 10
He had given her a moment, just one, to breathe. His thumbs stroked the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, a tender counterpoint to the ferocity of his mouth still singing on her flesh.
Then, with a possessive rumble that vibrated through the table, he moved.
Theron’s hands left her hips to grip her shoulders. In one powerful, fluid motion, he flipped her over. Lethea gasped, the world spinning. Her spent wings, still erupting in glorious, twitching arcs of iridescent black, were now pinned beneath her, their feathers crushed softly against the solid oak. The torn silk of her gown was a forgotten puddle at her waist. He pressed a heavy, reassuring hand between her shoulder blades, holding her face-down, her cheek against the cool, scored wood.
The new position bared her completely from behind, exposed and offered. She felt the broad head of his cock press against her, still slick from her own release. He didn’t ask. He didn’t tease.
With a single, forceful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
Lethea cried out, the sound muffled by the wood. The angle was deeper, more claiming. He set a relentless pace immediately, his powerful hips driving into her with a rhythm that shook the table and echoed through the silent, watchful hall. Each slam was a punctuation of possession. The slap of skin, his ragged breaths, her choked whimpers were the only music.
One of his hands fisted in her pixie-cut hair, not pulling, just holding. The other anchored on her hip, his fingers digging into the soft give of her pale gold skin. He leaned over her, his chest a warm, sweat-slicked weight against her wings.
“They see you,” he growled into her ear, his voice raw. “They see their goddess, taken. Claimed.” His thrusts grew harder, deeper, as if to prove the point. The pleasure coiled again, a bright, desperate heat building from the brutal, perfect friction.
Then his head dipped. His teeth grazed the junction of her neck and shoulder, a warning prickle. With a low, guttural snarl, he bit down.
The sharp burst of pain melted instantly into searing pleasure, a brand that seared through her nerves straight to her core. As he locked his jaw against her flesh, he drove into her one final, devastating time, growling against her skin.
“Mine.”
The word, the bite, the fullness of him shattered her. Lethea’s second climax tore through her with silent, blinding intensity. Her body seized, her wings flaring uselessly beneath her, every muscle locking as wave after wave of pure ecstasy rendered her mind blank and her voice stolen. She felt him pulse inside her, his own release a hot, claiming flood as he grunted his completion, his weight sinking fully upon her.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their shared, ragged breaths. The crowd’s presence was a distant, respectful hum. Slowly, gently, he released his bite, laving the mark with his tongue. He withdrew, but remained draped over her, a living blanket. His lips brushed her ear.
“Now,” he whispered, his voice thick with spent passion and unwavering certainty. “Now everyone knows.”