LYRE
Aaron’s fumbling a little, hesitating before he jerks my head back, his voice trembling just a little when he tries to sound cold.
It’s cute.
Like he wants to treasure me, not take me like a common whore.
But I don’t want to be something precious. I want dirty. Filthy. And to see exactly how much dominance lies under his skin.
I know he’s thinking about it. About how easily I took the wizard in my mouth. How I didn’t even flinch. It’s the kind of thing to bruise a man’s ego.
Good.
Let it bruise.
Let him fuck me like he’s got something to prove. I want his claws out, his teeth at my throat—not worship. I want him to use me. Break the illusion that I’m untouchable. Leave marks where everyone will see them. I’ll heal, but he needs to know what it feels like to fuck something divine—and realize she liked it.
Being powerful is like a drug. The highest of highs, but it comes with its own side effects—like knowing no one can put their hand to your throat and expect to live through it.
I’m tired of being the strongest in the room. Of being worshipped. Sex is little more than an itch to be scratched every few years, usually with some random slop of a human. And they’re always so reverent, so awed, unable to handle the power oozing even from my breath.
But not Aaron.
He’s hesitant, but he isn’t weak.
Demanding things of me, even when he has no place to do so.
If Caeriel tried it, I’d tear out his fucking spine.
But when Aaron yanks my hair back again and I can feel his hard, heavy cock pressed against my ass, my heart thumps hard. He’s willing to play along, and I like it.
The air smells of wolf and alpha heat, my pussy’s throbbing from his aura whispering against it, and for the first time in far too long, I’m aching for more.
If he stops, I might actually kill him.
"My mouth?" I purr, shoving back against his cock. "How dirty is it?"
Aaron’s voice drops to a rough whisper, and I swear the sound alone drags across my clit. "That mouth is a fucking sin. Makes promises your body can’t cash."
A delicious shiver ripples through me.
The usual rhythm of existence is tedious immortality punctuated by brief moments of violence or necessity. This? This feeling of yielding control to another’s hand? It’s rarer than an honest politician.
Let him think he’s in control. Let him think this is about him. The truth is, I’m the one who gave him the leash—and that makes it mine.
His thumb presses against my cheek, pushing slowly over my lips until it breaches my mouth. My breath catches in my chest. He’s understanding my assignment so well I could purr. I give his thumb a long, slow lick, tasting salt and wolf.
"This mouth’s gonna get you in trouble." His voice strokes along my nerves, low and deliberate, sending a slick pulse of want straight between my legs. "First it’s all over another man’s cock, and now you won’t shut the fuck up."
I laugh—low, mocking, sultry—the sound scraping against his thumb. "You gonna punish me, puppy?"
His hand glides from my face, down my throat, over my shoulder, trailing heat across my skin. In one swift motion, he captures my wrist and twists my arm behind me, forcing my back to arch, my breasts to thrust forward. The sudden shift in power sends a flood of wetness below.
Fuck.
Yeah.
He knows what he’s doing.
The fumbling is done. Whatever decision he’s come to, it’s exactly what I needed.
"You sound like you want me to," he growls against my ear.
His heat rolls off him like a second skin, brushing mine without ever quite touching. My breath hitches, not because I’m nervous—but because my body’s an attention whore.
I can smell his arousal, thick and wolfish, bitter with jealousy and something darker. Every inch of me reacts to it. It’s humiliating. And fucking delicious. My thighs are already slick, my spine arched like I’m begging for it. I’m not. But I will let him think so. Let him believe he’s in charge, just long enough for both of us to enjoy the lie.
The spark he ignites isn’t just desire. It’s a challenge. A game worth playing.
I lean my head back against his chest, deliberately exposing the vulnerable line of my throat. My eyes find his from below, half-lidded and taunting. I’ve faced death and walked away intact—I’ll surrender, but only to someone strong enough to earn it.
He leans down, and I brace for impact, for teeth and hunger and dominance.
Instead, his lips meet mine with unexpected restraint. Slow. Controlled. His teeth catch my bottom lip, tugging gently before releasing. His breath warms my cheek, scented with desire and restraint. This kiss isn’t claiming—it’s savoring. It leaves me unexpectedly breathless.
His dominance holds my body still, unable even to wriggle against the throbbing low in my belly. I could fight it, but I don’t. It would be defeating the point of this little game of ours.
He has me metaphysically tied.
It’s sexier than any sin.
"You’re gonna suck my cock until tears spill down your face," he murmurs against my lips, each word a caress and threat combined. "Until you can’t breathe without tasting me. I won’t stop ’til you’re gagging, choking, crying, and begging for more."
I chuckle, the sound vibrating between us. I’m still in control. Barely. My body hums with anticipation, my skin thrilled everywhere he touches me. This restraint, this patience—it’s more devastating than brute force could ever be.
He learns so quickly.
"That’s a lot of words and no action," I purr, each syllable dripping with challenge.
A growl tears from his throat, rumbling through our bodies. His nostrils flare, his pupils dilating with primal jealousy. I can smell it.
"I can still taste him in your mouth."
Seven hundred years of existence, and this might be the first time I’ve considered letting someone truly possess me, if only for a night. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it thrills.
I tilt my face back further.
"Then wash it out for me."