Page 16 of Burning Her Beautiful

A slow, desperate grind of her hips, her pussy swallowing the head of my cock with a tight, searing drag. I choke out a curse, grip her hips hard enough to bruise, and sink in another inch. Then another. Until her heat wraps all the way around me, deep and wet and fucking perfect.

“Gods, Iliana…” I groan, forehead pressing to the base of her neck. “You feel like worship.”

She whimpers—soft, broken, needy—and braces her forearms harder against the velvet chaise. Her body clenches around me, greedy, quivering, slick with her arousal and the remnants of the climax I gave her with my tongue. Her head drops forward.

“I want more,” she says, voice ragged. “Please, Varok—I want all of you.”

I draw out. Let her feel the length of me leaving her inch by inch, her walls fluttering in protest. Then I slam back in with a guttural sound, hips slapping against her ass, and she cries out—this raw, shattered sound that’s half surrender, half fury.

My cock drags deep, slow and punishing, claiming every velvet inch of her tight heat. I grind in a circle, feel her pulse around me, the way her cunt grips like a vice.

“Say it again,” I growl.

“More,” she gasps. “Give me more.”

I oblige.

I fuck her slow, then hard, then maddening again—changing rhythm like a spellcaster testing limits.

Her fingers claw into the cushions, her back arching beautifully as I snap my hips forward, over and over.

Each thrust draws a wet slap and a gasped breath, and the sound of us—flesh, velvet, thunder beyond the stained glass—consumes the room like a storm reborn.

“You’re mine,” I rasp. “No court. No kingdom. Mine.”

“Yes,” she chokes, voice a prayer and a curse. “Yours.”

Her pussy pulses around me when I say it—mine—and it makes me dizzy.

I reach beneath her, find her clit with two fingers, rub tight little circles until her arms buckle and her body collapses halfway onto the chaise.

Still kneeling, I follow, my cock never leaving her, thrusting from above now, deeper, harder.

She turns her face to me, breathless. Her lips part, eyes shining with tears she doesn’t bother to hide.

“I’ve never felt anything like this,” she whispers.

I kiss her. Not just a mouth-crushing kiss, but slow and open, tongues sliding as my cock plunges deeper. Our moans bleed into each other’s mouths, every inch of my body pressed to hers, skin slick with sweat, rune-scars burning.

“You feel everything,” I murmur against her lips. “You break me open with it.”

She kisses me back with fire, with desperation, lifting her hips to take me deeper. And I give it all.

I sit back on my heels, dragging her with me so she straddles my lap, my cock still buried inside her. Her knees frame my hips, thighs shaking. Her hands clutch my shoulders, nails biting.

“I want to see your face when you come,” she says, breath ghosting over my jaw.

I grip her ass, guide her up and down—slow, aching rides that make us both tremble. Her breasts bounce with each roll of her hips, nipples wet and peaked from earlier. I lower my mouth, suck one into my lips while she rocks against me, gasping, panting, chanting my name in a rising litany.

“Oh fuck, Varok—your cock—feels like it’s made for me.”

“It is ,” I grit. “I was forged for this—for you.”

Her rhythm falters as her orgasm builds again. I hold her tighter, fuck upward into her as she rides me, her body bowing, trembling. I suck hard on her nipple, slip a finger between us again and stroke her clit just right—and she unravels.

She screams.

Her pussy clenches around me in a violent spasm, milking my cock as she comes with an earthquake of sound, the chaise creaking beneath us. Her nails rip down my back, and the pain is pleasure, is grounding, is mine.

And I lose it.

I thrust into her once—twice—and then I come, roaring her name, cock pulsing deep inside her as I spill, wave after wave, until it feels like my soul empties into her. My arms cage her to my chest as I shudder, still seated inside her, her body wrapped around mine like a vow.

For a long moment, we’re nothing but breath and heartbeat. Her forehead rests against mine. My arms shake from the aftermath.

Then she moves.

Slowly, gently, she shifts off me, still trembling, and sinks back against the chaise, legs parted, skin slick and flushed, marked with my hands and my mouth.

She looks wrecked.

Beautiful.

Mine.

I close my eyes, letting each slow heartbeat remind me she is real, alive, and here by choice. The realization frightens me more than any battlefield—it promises a pain sharper than blades if she is lost. I tighten my arms.

After minutes she speaks, voice hazy. “That brand of yours feels cooler now.”

I glance down at the spiral. Indeed, its glow has dimmed, as if sated. “Perhaps it wanted to remember joy,” I murmur.

Her laughter is sleepy, tender. “Joy and thunder.” She brushes the scar again. “I liked meeting all of you tonight—the commander and the man underneath.”

I swallow, an unexpected prick of emotion lodging in my throat. “I am still learning who the man underneath even is.”

“Then we learn together.” She yawns, snuggling closer.

I press a kiss to her damp hair. In the deep hush after the storm, responsibilities crowd the edges of thought—Sarivya’s decree, Yalira’s vote, Asmodeus’s threats—but they wait outside the circle of her warmth. For this whisper of night, I rest in borrowed grace.

As her breathing slows, I vow under my breath: no collar, no law, no king will strip this from us. If I must carve new constellations across the sky to keep her safe, I will draw them with blood and lightning.

Outside, thunder rumbles a distant approval. Inside, her heartbeat guides mine toward a dawn neither of us has dared to imagine—yet one I will bend the world to see.