Page 16 of Bound By the Beast Man

DIANA

H is arms are a fortress around me. The violent, shuddering sobs that wracked my body have subsided, leaving behind a hollow, aching shame.

I attacked him. I wounded the one person who has shown me any kindness in years, the creature who pulled me from a living grave.

The mortification is a bitter taste in my mouth, yet I do not pull away from his embrace.

I feel safe.

His promise echoes in the silence, a vow that soothes the raw edges of my soul.

They will never touch you again. The words are a balm, a shield.

I believe him. I press my face against the rough fabric of his tunic, inhaling his scent—pine, and cold mountain air, and something else, something warm and uniquely him.

His warmth is a steady, living thing, seeping into my skin, chasing away the bone-deep chill that has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember.

One of his large hands rests on my back, a solid, grounding weight that keeps the lingering terror of the nightmare at bay.

I become hyper-aware of his touch. My skin, which has known only the cold, clinical handling of the Purna for years, now registers the gentle pressure of his hand, the strength in his arms, the steady beat of his heart against my cheek.

To be held, not as a specimen, but as a person.

The contrast is so stark, so overwhelming, it brings a fresh wave of tears to my eyes.

I pull back slightly, not out of fear of him, but out of a complicated mix of guilt for the wound I inflicted and a sudden, unaccustomed longing for more of his gentle contact.

The air in the cave is suddenly thick with unspoken things.

I look at the makeshift bandage on his forearm, at the dark stain of his blood seeping through the cloth.

Guilt is a sharp, physical pain in my chest. He risked his life to free me, and I repaid him with violence.

I have to say something, to explain the terror that drove me to it, but the words are tangled and insufficient.

He follows my gaze to his arm, but his expression holds no anger, only a deep, quiet sorrow for what I have endured.

He does not pull away, but his hand moves from my back to my shoulder, a gesture of continued comfort.

The simple touch is almost my undoing. The tension in the small space between us coils tighter, a strange, new energy from the man—the creature—who holds me.

I find my voice, though it is a trembling, broken thing.

“I haven't been touched in years,” I whispered, the admission a moment of terrifying vulnerability. “Not without cruelty behind it.”

I watch his face, fearing what I will see.

Pity? Disgust? But his bronze-gold eyes hold only a fierce, conflicted emotion I cannot name.

I see his discipline at war with something wilder, something primal.

He hesitates, his jaw tightening as he fights a battle within himself.

And in his hesitation, I find a strange courage.

I am done being a victim. I am done being passive.

I make a choice. I lean into his touch, a small, almost imperceptible movement, a silent invitation.

My need for comfort, for connection, for a touch that is not a violation, overrides a lifetime of fear.

My small movement— a subtle shift of my hips against his— shatters his restraint.

A low growl rumbles deep in his chest, no longer laced with anger but thick with raw, unrestrained need.

His eyes, dark and molten, lock onto mine, and his hands cup my face, calloused thumbs brushing away the tears staining my cheeks with a tenderness that contrasts the storm brewing in him.

Then he kisses me, and it’s not gentle. It’s a fierce, desperate claiming, his lips crashing against mine with a hunger that feels like possession but never violation.

His tongue invades my mouth, tasting of salt and heat, urgent and unyielding, as if he’s staking a claim born of our shared trauma, our survival, and the unspoken longing that’s simmered since he shattered my glass prison.

I respond with a desperation that matches his, my hands clutching his shoulders, fingers digging into the hard muscle beneath his shirt.

This is a reclamation, a rebirth. After years as a numb, disembodied thing, his touch— powerful, tender, alive— pulls me back into my body, reawakening sensations I thought lost forever.

His hands roam, rough yet reverent, peeling away the tattered remnants of my clothing.

His lips follow, trailing fire down my neck, nipping at the sensitive skin above my collarbone, then lower, teasing the swell of my breasts until I gasp, arching into him.

This is no clinical cruelty like the Purna’s; it’s a wild, beautiful fire that burns away the last of my fear and shame, leaving only need.

He lays me back on his cloak, spread across the cave’s stone floor, the coarse fabric a stark contrast to the heat of his body above me. The firelight dances over his skin, highlighting the scars and taut lines of muscle as he sheds his own clothes, revealing the raw power of him.

My hands explore him, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, the strength of his thighs, the hard length of him that presses against me, igniting a pulse of want deep in my core.

His fingers find me, slipping between my thighs, and I’m already wet, aching, my breath hitching as he strokes with a knowing touch, coaxing moans from my lips.

His mouth claims mine again, swallowing my gasps, and I feel the edge of something primal in him, barely leashed.

He positions himself between my legs, and when he enters me, it’s with a slow, deliberate thrust, filling me completely, his groan mingling with my cry.

The stretch is exquisite, grounding me in this moment, in the heat of him, the weight of him.

But the tenderness shifts, the fire between us catching into something fiercer.

His hands grip my hips, hard enough to bruise, and I urge him on, my nails raking his back, my legs wrapping around him to pull him deeper.

His huge cock is almost too much to take but I want it. I want it all inside me.

“Fuck me deep,” I plead.

I grab his ass and pull him toward me. His cock stabs deep inside of me and I let out a moan as deep as his cock inside me.

I can feel all of him now. My pussy is his to do as he pleases.

“Use me,” I beg.

His thrusts grow harder, faster, a relentless rhythm that shakes the cloak beneath us, the cave walls echoing with the raw sounds of our bodies— skin slapping, breaths ragged, my moans rising to match his growls.

This is no gentle union; it’s a fierce, life-affirming fuck, a collision of need and survival. I meet him thrust for thrust, my body arching, sweat-slicked, as he drives into me with a force that feels like it could shatter the world.

His eyes never leave mine, dark with possession and awe, and I feel a dormant power inside me stir, awakened by the sheer intensity of his passion.

“I need all of you,” he says, never missing a stab in my pussy.

But, he stops and with one flick of his massive arms he flaps me. I push my ass to the air in agreement with him.

And without warning his massive cock is in my ass, I feel it throb with excitement as he ass fucks me until I almost pass out.

But yet, I still mutter, “More, fill me, fuck me.”

And as the world almost disappears in a whirlwind of pleasure. He flips me again and I flinch as his massive member stabs my pussy again.

It is so wet it slips in. pushing deeper than ever before.

My hands clutch his shoulders, my body tightening around him, and the pressure builds, a tidal wave cresting within me. At the height of my climax, it erupts— a blinding burst of white-gold light radiates from my body, filling the cave, pushing back the shadows in a silent, brilliant explosion.

“Let me be your whore,” I cry out.

He thrusts, “I am your master.”

“Yes, please. Fuck me master.”

And he does, my slight body can’t take anymore, my pussy and ass fucked by a monster. A beast.

The power surges through me, electric and alive, as my body trembles beneath him, clenching around him in waves of pleasure.

He withdraws his sword from me and I collapse.

He takes a breath and then kisses me on the lips with his cock.

It tastes of raw pleasure and a lick until his seed spills on my feet. I embrace his roar of satisfaction.

I rub his cum deep into my skin and stroke his ass as he recovers.

This power— it’s like the stories my mother whispered late at night when my father slept, tales of her own mother, a mysterious woman from a faraway land who could make flowers bloom in winter, soothe a fever with a touch.

She called them fairy tales, but as I look up at Corvak’s face, his eyes wide with shock and awe, his chest heaving as he stares at the fading glow around us, I know with chilling certainty they were not.

This power, this light, is real, and it’s mine.