Page 69 of Devoured
He closed the distance in just a few strides and cupped my face with impossible care for a creature made to kill. His fingers curved gently beneath my jaw, tilting my chin so I had no choice but to look up into those twin infernos pulsing inside the mask. “I’ve waited so long to touch you like this. To worship every inch of what you hide under those sheets.”
Then he knelt and pushed me gently back until I was lying on the bone table, legs dangling. His hand found the bandaged wound on my shoulder, fingers hovering just above the gauze without touching.
“Does it hurt?”he asked, voice softer through the helmet’s modulation.
“A little.”I nodded.
Promise saturated every word as he spoke. “I’ll be careful.”
One hand moved up—past my belly, over my ribs—to cup my breast. He cradled the curve in one broad palm, then used his thumb—barely a flick, just enough to wake sensation—to toy with the nipple. “Every curve of you.”His free hand traced down my side, fingers spreading over the fullness of my hip. “Your soft belly, these hips... you’re a goddess made flesh.”
“Those sounds you’re going to make,”he growled, voice thickened with want. “Mine now.”
And from beneath the bottom edge of the helmet, a tongue slid out. Black as oil. Long. Wrong. Too flexible.
It touched my knee first—a taste. Then higher, curling against my inner thigh in slow spirals, hot and slick and curious. The tongue moved like it had eyes, like it could smell need, and when it finally found the wet heat between my legs, I gasped.
Not from shock. From surrender.
He didn’t dive in. Not yet. He teased. Traced me. Circled the swollen lips without touching my clit directly, building heat that spread in waves of dark pleasure.
Above, his hand worked my breast—rougher now. The flat of his thumb dragged across the hard nub, sending shocks of pleasure ricocheting down my spine. Each press and flick was synced with the movement of his tongue below.
The tongue flicked up. Found the bundle of nerves and stayed there—pressing soft at first, then circling with steady precision.
I moaned.
It moved faster. Deeper. Curling into me—slick and sinuous—hitting places no human ever had. I arched, hand shooting out for purchase, gripping the edge of the table like it might fly apart beneath me.
The rhythm built until I was panting, head thrown back, every inch of my body tight with the need to break apart. His tongue thrust deeper, and I cried out—once, then again—louder, higher, as the orgasm ripped through me like a curse breaking.
My thighs clamped around his helmet, but he didn’t move, didn’t pull back. His tongue stayed inside me, licking slow, coaxing aftershocks from nerves that hadn’t stopped sparking.
By the time he withdrew his tongue and rose to his feet, my legs were still quivering.
“Now,”he whispered, the helmet sealing again with a soft hiss. “Now I claim you.”
His rough, scarred palms gripped the insides of my thighs, fingers spreading me open like he was laying bare some sacred text. I could feel the calluses on his fingertips—the life, no, the lives—he’d taken with those hands.
They didn’t frighten me.
They made me wetter.
He stayed between my legs for a breathless pause, staring up at me through the slits in the helmet. Then his hand found something on the side of the table—a control panel I hadn’t noticed. The hydraulics hissed, and the table rose slowly until I was at the perfect height for his massive frame.
Eight feet tall to my five.
Now we were aligned.
He reached for the zipper. It came down slow, teeth parting with a rasp that sounded too loud in the quiet. His hips shifted forward, pants tugged low enough to free the thing he’d kept hidden.
My breath caught.
His cock hung heavy, thick as my wrist and veined like something carved from volcanic rock—dark red over black, the ridges pronounced, pulsing just slightly at the tip like it had its own hunger. A single drop of slick gathered there and fell, landing hot against my thigh.
I reached out without thinking. My fingers closed around the base and couldn’t meet. My palm barely spanned the underside, and it throbbed in my hand—alive, twitching under my touch like it could sense my awe.
The skin wasn’t soft. It had texture. Heat. Weight. My thumb grazed the underside and found another ridge.
