Page 69 of Kingmakers, Year Four

“No perfume,” she says. “Just me.”

No scent is more enticing. My mouth is watering, my cock raging to ram inside of her.

“I’m ovulating,” Sloane says.

My heart pumps harder, each throb sending a gallon of blood rocketing through my veins.

She licks the rim of my ear, thrusting her tongue inside and then whispering, “If you can hold me down and cum in me, I’ll carry another baby for you.”

I would never mix my seed with a lesser woman. I want children from her, and no one else.

Sloane has already born me a son, a strong and handsome child, as intelligent as his mother and as disciplined as myself.

Now I want a daughter as beautiful and vicious as Sloane.

We struggle with new intensity, all her skill and trickery in opposition to my superior strength and size.

My wife did not enjoy pregnancy. She hated how it weakened her with nausea. I know this offer is not given without conditions, and it may not be repeated. If she manages to slip my grip, there will be no baby.

She tries to twist away from me. I seize a handful of her hair, yanking her back again. She vaults over my shoulder, throwing her arm around my neck, trying to choke me from behind.

I get my forearm in the crook of her elbow and muscle her arm away, grabbing her wrist with my opposite hand and twisting it.

Now I have her arm up behind her back and I throw her down on the bearskin, forcing her legs apart with my knees.

She’s still struggling, fighting like the wild little fox that she is—never submitting.

I see the gleam of wetness between her thighs and I smell that rich, musky scent that inveigles me, promising that if I cum deep inside of her tonight, my seed will take hold.

My cock is raging, standing out from my body like a weapon.

I put one hand on her back, shoving her down. With my other hand, I grip the base of my cock.

I thrust it in.

Her pussy is hotter than the fire, tight and liquid and clenching.

She lets out a shriek that is part fury and part helpless pleasure.

I pump into her, my knees pinning down her legs, my cock driving into her from behind, my hips smacking against the firm globes of her ass.

She begins to moan, rocking her hips, spreading her thighs wider to invite me in deeper. Her hands splay in front of her, fingers gripping the thick black fur.

I want her to moan like that in my ear. I want to feel her breasts against my chest.

I withdraw so I can flip her over to face me.

The moment I do, she leaps up from the rug, ready to sprint away from me. She can’t help herself—as good as it feels, she can’t resist her impulse to trick me with her supposed cooperation, to escape, and to win.

Roaring, I fling myself after her, wrapping her up in my arms and bringing her to the ground once more.

Now there will be no mercy and no hesitation.

I pin her arms over her head. I drive into her with full force. And I fuck her ruthlessly, her breasts bouncing on her chest, her head thrown back to expose the long, beautiful lines of her throat.

I suck that throat like I could drink her blood through the skin. I bite her neck and her breasts, marking her with bruises to remind her that she’s married to an animal, to an equal, to the one man in the world who will never let her escape.

She may be a fox, but I’m a wolf. The wolf takes the fox whenever he likes.

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