Page 17 of The Minotaur's Milkmaid
Maeve’s all fair skin and freckles, her body lush and curvy. Her breasts, full, heavy, tipped with pink nipples already pebbledtight. A bead of milk glistens at one peak, and my cock throbs so hard it’s agony.
“Dakar…” She falters, but her hips tilt toward me, begging without words.
I groan, palming her breasts, weighing them, squeezing them. They spill over my fingers, swollen and dripping. “Look at you,” I rumble. “You were made for me.”
Her breath hitches when I thumb her nipples, rolling them, coaxing out another thick drop. Then I bend, licking it away, and her moan shakes through me. Fuck yes. I suck her deep, my tongue circling as milk floods my mouth. It's sweet, and rich, andhers. She arches, fingers tangling in my hair, holding me close.
“Don’t stop!”
As if I could.
Her thighs squeeze around my waist, her red curls glinting like fire against her pale skin. I want to bite. To lick. To shove my cock into that wet heat and fuck her as she screams.
I switch to her other breast, sucking harder, and her back bows. “Please.”
I grin against her skin. “Please what, little one?” I nip her nipple, making her jerk. “Still so full for me,” I rumble, flicking my tongue over the peak. She whimpers, fingers twisting in the furs. I suck gently, drawing another trickle of milk, and her hips jerk against nothing. The scent of her arousal thickens in the air.
I grip them both hard as I work her with my tongue. Her little cries go straight to my cock, which is already hard between my legs. Pulling myself free from my kilt, I begin to stroke myself slowly between us, watching her, the flutter of her lashes, the way her teeth dig into her lower lip.
“Do you want this?” My thumb circles her nipple, smearing a bead of milk. “Want my mouth here?” Another slow pull, my hand sliding up my shaft.
She nods frantically.
I growl, pinching her nipple just enough to make her cry out. “Words, Maeve.”
“Y-yes,” she gasps. “Please.”
Fuck. My fist tightens around my cock, stroking hard, the pre-come slicking my grip. Gods, the way she’s looking at me right now, like shewantsme. I could flip her onto her knees right now, claim her until her milk spills across the furs and her throat aches from screaming.
No Dakar, not yet.
Not when she’s finally arching into my touch instead of flinching, finally meeting my gaze with heat instead of fear. Every shaky breath, every flicker of her lashes, every inch of skin she bares for me without me demanding it…Mine.
The sweetness of that surrender, of her choosing it, is better than any rutting frenzy.
I release her breast and lean back against the wall, spreading my legs wider, so she can see. I want her to watch the thick, aching length of me, the way my hips jerk into my fist, my seed beading up on the swollen head of my cock. Her breath hitches, her own fingers reach down and begin circling her clit.
“Tell me,” I demand, my voice rough. “Tell me who you belong to.”
Her eyes meet mine, and when she whispers, “You.” Victory roars through my blood.
My hand moves faster, my balls tightening. “Watch,” I snarl. “Watch what you do to me.”
Her little moan is my undoing.
The first spurt lands hot across her thighs, her stomach. The second strikes her trembling fingers where they’re still working between her legs. She gasps, but doesn’t pull away, just watches as I milk myself dry onto her skin, marking her.
Mine.
Panting, I drag my thumb through the mess on her belly, smearing my spend down to where her fingers swirl against her clit. “Finish,” I order, gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. “But first, tell me again who you belong to.”
Her breath hitches, hips rolling. She’s close, so close, but I won’t let her fall until she says it.
“Say it.” I press my thumb over hers, forcing her to rub harder. “Who owns this cunt? Who’s your mate?”
“Y-you,” she whimpers.
“Louder.”
