Growling low in his throat, he wrapped both arms around her thighs, spreading her wider. Embracing this chance while it was his to do with as he pleased.
This was what he’d been trained for. All the years of abuse and denial were for this moment. For her. To use lips, teeth, tongue, and fingers until she was quaking above him. Until she’d left him bruised and dripping in want.
He buried his face between her thighs, using the flat of his tongue to lap up as much slick as he could get, before diving deeper. Going inside to drink straight from the source.
Ecstasy singed his taste buds. Burning with every swallow, her taste left him ravaged. His throat parched and dry, flexing with the need to gulp her down and soothe his aches with nothing but the slick ambrosia pouring from a needy little cunt.
It was her turn to whine. Her turn to tremble and quake, for taking a position of dominance was as unnatural to a Hathorian female as submission was to an Anhur.
Sickle knew it all too well.
To need and not know how to ask. To give, knowing nothing would be returned.
Just as Sickle had never been chosen first, and the Alpha had never been told to wait, so too could he assume this girl had never been allowed to ask.
Tearing one hand from his grip on her hip, Sickle moved to cup a breast. Catching the rosy point between forefinger and thumb, he rolled it across the first knuckle just to make her gasp. To watch her face contort.
“P-purple,” she gasped, clapping her hand over his. Showing him how to pinch until the tip of her breast began to bloom with color.
She’d chosen well for her first. Of them all, Sickle had enough girth to spread her without causing pain. To stretch her delicate flesh around his knot, while allowing her to focus solely on her own pleasure. He was the safe option. The weakest male… Hathorian.
But she had chosen him.
Pulling her clit between his teeth, he worried at that engorged bean. Suckling until she mewled for him to stop. Until she was so sensitive, she flinched at his every breathy exhale. Overstimulated by design, for Sickle had been trained to please.
And he applied every trick he’d ever learned.
Growling into her, he delighted in the flexing muscles caught in his palms. That she squirmed and bucked, trying to get away and get closer from one second to the next. Fueled by the breathy little squeals he drew from her throat, as her knees shifted on the stone beneath his head, she rode his face. Seeking her peak.
Above it all, the pack howled their demands that went unheard by the two Hathorians filling the clearing with the scent of wet heat.
Lapping at her clit once more, Sickle tried to bring her off.
“No,” she gasped and lurched back. Breaking his grip, she slid fragile fingers around his, and pulled until he released her. Utterly shameless, she sat on his chest—leaving his skin wet with the evidence of her arousal—and straightened her legs. Giving him a direct view of a gorgeous ripe pussy and tiny flexing ass hole.
Sickle swallowed, hard. Almost grateful when she shifted again, planted her knees beneath his armpits, then shimmied back. Braced above him on all fours, she was left exposed. Displaying that perfect pussy to the bound males made to watch, yet every ounce of Sickle’s attention had narrowed to the spot where the head of his dick nudged something hot and moist. Straining and sliding between her cheeks.
Stooping, she set her nose to the spot just beneath his chin, then licked at his pulse. Where his flavor would be strongest.
“What’s your name?” he asked, desperately needing to blink. Terrified to miss even a single instant.
Her head tilted, a frown pinching the skin between her brows.
And it was then, as she stared into his eyes with a foggy, confused glare, that he realized just how far gone this little female really was. Pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, her forehead damp with a sheen of dew—he wasn’t altogether certain she’d understood the question.
Perhaps it was her first time? Her first heat?
It would explain the confusion, but not the rest of it. The defiance. The traps.
He’d never seen such a thing happen to the Anhur queens. Never, during all the years he’d served, had he seen a queen so lost to her needs.
So… helpless.
Sickle groaned, unable to speak even as he reached for her hips. Trying to push her lower, to fit himself between her thighs and add to the mess dripping into his neatly groomed pubic hair.
To have a creature so soft, so vulnerable at his mercy? Not even the arms of the Nine could be so precious. Surely his ancestors watched from the ashes, weeping dusty tears of joy to see him this way.
All sharp lines and delicate curves, she was fine boned. Elegant, yet sharp. A high-born specimen, meant to whelp only the best offspring for her master.
And now she belonged to the pack.
Sickle paused only to send his cock through her sodden folds. Once, twice, three times—lubricating himself to the tone of better males demanding he stop. Grimacing, he crooned as she sank down, swallowing his pole to the root. Sheets of sodden, jet-black hair hung between them. Dripping. Begging to be wrapped around his fist.
“So tight,” Sickle hummed, eyes rolling back. “Don’t worry,” he rasped. “I’ll make it”—a breathy grunt—“it’ll be good for your first time, pet.”
A breathy laugh whispered above him, but her glands shuddered around his prick. Bearing down, he flexed his hips as she picked up a delightful, selfish rhythm. Sickle thrust as deep as he could, then held stiff. Offering her every spare inch of dick he possessed, even as he pulled her down. As he set his nose to the junction between jaw and the slender column of her throat. Inhaling deep, intimate breaths. Lips catching her taste.
One hand buried in her hair, the other locked onto the meat of her left hip, Sickle forced her to ride. To grind her swollen little bean into his pelvis and ignore the other males.
Slick squelched out around his base, soaking his nuts.
She was tightening around him. Each pass of her hips bringing her closer to climax, the tight fit enticing his knot to swell. An urge he fought.
Eyes squeezed shut, Sickle gripped her hip as hard as he could. Keeping her folded over him as he bred her, nose pressed to throat. His mouth watered with the urge to mark her in the way of their people. Her nipples scraping over his chest.
And then her Biquea glands pulsed against his shaft. Working in tandem, they kneaded and milked. Tiny gripping hands forcing his knot to bloom even before he spilled all that frothy seed, expanding against her glands at just the right moment to send her spiraling into bliss.
Twitching and quivering, he felt her orgasm ripple around him. Felt her glands clench and chew on his shaft as he fought to subdue her. The pleasure from so fine an intimate grip sent him into convulsions of ecstasy he was ill-prepared to deal with, let alone weather. Pumping jet after jet of seed into her sodden channel, only to seal it inside with his knot.
Fighting against the pulse of glands too tight to deflate.
When he was finally spent, his sack drained and hanging limp between tacky thighs, he tried to purr for her. To show his gratitude for that short and wild ride by producing a frail little warble high in his chest.
She shivered, bearing down. Still clenching. Still riding him, and though he’d begun to soften, he could still feel her glands locked around his knot. Defiantly hard. Filled to the brim with the antidote to so mindless a season.
An antidote he’d failed to extract.