Page 46 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“Take it all,” he whispers, his hips jerking as he empties his heavy balls into my stretched pussy. “Every fucking drop.”
There’s so much cum that it’s leaking out around his cock even though he’s still buried deep, but he’s not done. He remains hard inside me, and after only a moment’s pause, he starts moving again.
“Again,” he growls, his hips rolling in a rhythm that causes new sensations. “I need to fill you more.”
“Raphael,” I cry out, overwhelmed by the sensation of his previous load being pushed deeper into me with each thrust. “I can’t—”
“You can,” he insists, one massive hand moving between us to find my clit. His thumb works me, and despite my protests, I feel my body responding again.
This time he leans over me, positioning his horns on either side of my head, creating an intimate cage as he claims me once more, slower this time. This close, I can see the beast in his eyes, the primal satisfaction of having me pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.
The sounds of our coupling are absolutely filthy now, with the wet slap of his heavy balls, the slick sound of his seed beingfucked deeper into me, my helpless moans as he drives me toward another impossible climax.
“Listen to that,” he rumbles, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Listen to how wet and sloppy you are. How well you take my cock even after I’ve filled you up.”
I’m beyond giving a coherent response, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being so thoroughly claimed. His massive body covers mine completely, his strength allowing him to position me exactly how he wants me.
“My little bee,” he snarls, his thrusts becoming erratic as he approaches his second climax. “I’m going to keep you full of my cum, keep you marked with my scent. No one will ever dare threaten what’s mine again.”
When he comes a second time, it’s with a bellow that shakes the windows, his cock jerking and pulsing as he pumps another massive load into my already overflowing body. This time I come with him, my pussy clenching and milking every drop from his heavy balls as my vision goes white with pleasure.
We collapse together, both of us breathing hard, and he stays buried inside me, his massive weight pinning me to the mattress. I can feel rivers of his cum leaking out around his softening cock, so much that it’s pooling beneath us, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“How do you feel?” he asks after a long moment, his voice gentle but satisfied.
“Like I belong to you,” I answer honestly, pressing a kiss to his furred chest. “Completely.”
“Good.” His arm tightens around me. “Because you do. You’re mine now, little bee.”
The possessive words make me feel safe and cherished. I’ve never belonged to anyone before, never felt so completely claimed and protected.
“You can forget about all your worries,” he says, his voice heavy with satisfaction. “Now we can focus on what really matters.”
I nod contently and snuggle into him as I close my eyes, letting his warmth and strength surround me, and in that moment, I believe him entirely.
Chapter 15
Honeyed Bliss
Raphael
The past few weeks havesettled into a rhythm that feels like home in ways I never expected. Frankie and I move through our days with an easy partnership. In the mornings, we’re often in the apiaries, where I’ve learned to carefully handle delicate hive components. In the afternoons, we enjoy each other’s company, usually curled up on the sofa, reading or scrolling. And our evenings inevitably end with her beneath me, crying out my name as I claim her again and again.
The town has changed too. What started as wary acceptance has grown into something approaching normalcy. Diego’s coffee shop buzzes with monster and human voices alike each morning. The farmers market that once fell silent when I appeared now hums with genuine conversation. Even Tom Brennan, who initially viewed me as a threat, now offers handshakes and small talk.
With my help in the apiaries, Tom’s services are no longer needed for the heavy lifting and daily maintenance. Frankie was nervous about letting him go, worried about hurting his feelings, but Tom seemed almost relieved to step back to his previous role of occasional repairs and emergency calls. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a permanent helper,” he’d said with something that might have been approval.
This Saturday morning finds us at the farmers market, Frankie radiant behind her honey display while I stand beside her, no longer the intimidating outsider but simply part of the landscape.
The morning progresses with the usual bustle of vendors setting up and early shoppers making their rounds. Patty waves from her bakery stall, no longer nervous around my presence. Moss, the swamp creature who’s become surprisingly popular with his pickle selection, nods in my direction. The easy acceptance still feels surreal.
Closer to noon, Lysander Silvermoon takes the small wooden stage near the ancient oak trees that anchor the market square.
He moves with that inhuman grace that marks his fae heritage, his platinum hair catching the morning light like spun silver. The crowd naturally gravitates toward him, drawn by the magnetic pull of old authority and practiced charm.
“Friends, neighbors,” he begins, his cultured voice carrying easily across the square without strain. “As many of you know, the Silvermoon family has had the privilege of calling Sunnybrook home for many generations. And for many of those generations, we’ve hosted an annual celebration of our community’s harvest bounty.”
Murmurs of interest ripple through the gathered crowd. I’ve heard whispers about the Silvermoon parties, elaborate affairs that were invitation-only and carefully curated.
