Page 18 of The Minotaur's Milkmaid
“You Dakar!” Her back arches, thighs shaking. “You’re my mate, I’m yours, I’m—Oh Gods…”
“Again.” I bite her shoulder as her body tightens. “Say it while you come.”
She does, sobbing it, chanting it, “Yours, yours, yours,” as she shatters, my name a prayer on her lips and my come slick between her thighs.
By the gods, she’s a vision. My perfect mate, glistening with my claim, more precious than any spoils of war, more sacred than any altar I’ve ever knelt before.
Chapter Eleven
Can I taste it?
Maeve
Oh…oh.
My body is tingling. I feel warm and loose like honey left in the sun. There’s an aching pull, deep in my belly, and when I shift, I feel the slick heat between my thighs. My cheeks go hot. I don’t understand why this is happening, why it feels so good and so wrong all at once.
I’ve seen rams mount ewes in the fields. I’ve also heard the village girls whisper behind cupped hands, their cheeks flushed as they giggled over their wedding nights. There’s no shame in Dakar though, not a single ounce. His fist moves in a slow, possessive stroke, his gaze devouring me like a man starved. It makes my thighs squeeze together just to feel the sweet friction.
And the things he said…the thingsIsaid…
Oh, stars above.
I bite my lip, torn between the modesty I was taught to have and the filthy, delicious truth that I love watching him stroke himself. Love the way his fist glides over his cock, the way his muscles tense from looking atme.
Gods, is this normal?
A shaky breath escapes me. The heat between my legs isn’t fear. It’s need. The kind that has me grinding against nothing, chasing that feeling again.
Dakar’s nostrils flare, his grip tightening.
“What is this?” I whisper, staring at the mess between us, pearlescent streaks on my stomach.
“Seed,” he rumbles.
I tilt my head, studying it. “Like milk?”
A rough chuckle shakes his chest. “Not quite, little cow.”
“But you must…milk it out?” I press, inching closer. My fingers hover, curious. “Like I do?”
His pupils swallow the gold of his eyes. “Yes,” he grits out. “Sometimes.”
I lick my lips without thinking and his cock jerks in his hand.
“Can I taste it?”
He inhales sharply.“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
He lifts his hand, breath ragged, and offers himself to me. A glistening streak coats his thumb, pearled from the tip of hiscock. I lean in, dragging my tongue slowly along the pad of his thumb.
Salt and heat explode on my tongue, bitter and wild. A shiver wracks me, my toes curling against the furs.
“Well?” His voice is rough, barely recognizable.
I watch his face as I answer.
