Chapter 90 Knife of Sensation
(Apollo & Adelaide)
He wanted to pull back. To ease off. To protect.
He drove deeper instead.
His cock swelled with the shift. Lengthening. Thickening. He felt the pressure of her walls stretching around him. Strangling him.
The bulbous rippling shape filled her completely. The head and base round and thick. Then, just slightly thinner in the middle. Every withdrawal meant her lips stretched over the thickest parts of him. Until he forced his way back in, giving her just a second of reprieve.
She screamed with every thrust. Whispering and pleading. “Too big. Too much.”
Yet another orgasm fired through her. He felt every squeeze, every pull, every contraction along his cock.
Her scream hit him like a drug. The bond flared so violently that he nearly saw nothing but white.
His wings burst from his back again, ripping through the air in a storm of ash and sparks. They spread wide behind him, bracing against the stone as he used them for leverage, each thrust shaking the cross. Feathers smouldered at the tips, dropping to the floor like singed prayers that would never reach any god.
He was dimly aware of the wood groaning in protest. Of runes flaring brighter around their feet, drinking in the magic leaking from him like spilled blood.
Mostly, he was aware of her.
Every tiny jerk of her hips. Every involuntary clench. The way her chest heaved against his, slick skin sliding against the lines of his body. The tremor in her thighs when he ground his hips just so, when he angled her slightly higher, when he pushed the monstrous length into her, so deep it hit resistance.
Her head snapped back on a raw cry.
His teeth found her throat—sharp now, too sharp—and he forced himself not to pierce. Not to claim. Not yet. His breath came out in ragged bursts, each exhale branding her with heat.
“Again,” he snarled against her pulse.
She shook her head wildly, tears flying. “I can’t—I can’t—”
The bond disagreed.
He felt the pressure building inside her body like a storm, energy coiling tight, tighter, almost painful. Her magic scraped along his, desperate for release.
He rolled his hips, deep and relentless.
He dragged his dick back, feeling the tightness as she stretched over the bulbous base, then hit forward again in a sharp, quick motion. Again and again and again.
The music of her pain and pleasure singing from her parted lips was just magical. He dove his face into her neck, her collarbones, the base of her jaw. Licking and sucking the fire from her skin.
He bent his head, tracing his mouth down to the swell of her breast. His fangs tingled with the call of his beast. Another sharp thrust had her squeezing around him like a vice.
Apollo sank his teeth into her luscious breast. The heat of her blood flooded his tongue.
His own knees nearly buckled. The world tilted.
He tasted it so clearly now. Her spark. Her fire. Her power.
It rolled through him uncontrollably. And he nearly surrendered. For one dizzy instant, he wasn’t sure which one of them was devouring the other; it felt like drinking from a river that was somehow also drinking from him.
He braced a hand against the cross above her head, claws gouging into the wood as wave after wave of her release tore through the bond, punching through his chest like a series of lightning strikes. His muscles locked, fighting the instinct to follow her over that edge right then, to let go, to let himself be dragged under with her.
Not yet.
He grit his teeth and rode it out, every shudder clenching around him, threatening to drag him with her.
“Beautiful,” he forced out, voice broken. “Look at you. Burning for me.”
She sagged against the wood, limbs trembling so hard the whole structure vibrated beneath her, sweat streaking down her temples. Her breaths came in short, panicked pants, half-sob, half-moaning exhale.
“Stop,” she whispered, though the bond still glowed hot and bright, nowhere near spent. “Please… I can’t… it hurts…”
He rested his forehead against hers for a heartbeat, eyes burning. For a single, fragile second, the world stilled around that contact—Devil and girl suspended at the eye of the storm they’d created.
“I know,” he said.
And then moved again.
She didn’t know how much time had passed.
It could have been minutes. Hours. A lifetime. Hell had no sky to track, no sun to crawl across a horizon; only the relentless, circular rise and fall of him, the metronome of her own breaking.
The cross, the room, the world—everything collapsed down to the feel of him, the sound of him, the terrible rhythm of his body mercilessly using her as if she were the only thing holding him together.
Every time she thought there was nothing left inside her to give, that she had emptied herself completely in the last shattering wave, he dragged more out.
He found every edge she didn’t know she had.
Every new angle that made white static burst across her vision. Every pace that turned the hot ache between her thighs into a sharpened knife of sensation.
He was everywhere.
Mouth at her throat. Teeth at her shoulder. One hand braced above her, claws buried in wood, the other gripping her hip so hard she knew it would bruise. His chest pinned hers, his heat searing through her like a brand. His voice—a rough litany of curses and praise and broken fragments of her name—spilled against her ear in a language she didn’t understand. The syllables tasted old, older than his throne, older than the palace; the kind of words not meant for mortal tongues, curling in the air like dark prayers.