His hand pressed harder against her mouth, a leather-clad palm stifling her next protest. His other hand gripped her thigh, hiking it around his waist with a single, effortless motion. The cool air kissed her exposed skin, and she felt utterly unveiled before him. "I said… shhh," he growled, the sound vibrating against her temple. There was no more warning. He surged forward, the broad, unforgiving head of his cock breaching her, burying itself deep.
A muffled "Hnn!" escaped into his hand.
The feeling was one of catastrophic fullness. He stretched her, filled her, claiming so complete it stole the breath from her lungs. He held her there, impaled and silenced, his hand a relentless seal over her mouth. Then he withdrew slightly and thrust deeper, a conquest that felt like it split her very self. "Now," he rasped, his breath hot in her ear, "you are really mine."
Shou! The syllable died against his skin.
He answered by driving deeper still, a devastating nudge against her cervix that made her eyes roll back. His hand tightened. Then he began to move, a hard, fast, merciless rhythm that stole time and thought. "Marry me," he whispered into the shell of her ear, the words a dark counterpoint to the brutal snap of his hips.
He pulled out to the tip and slammed home, the force jolting a frantic nod from her. "Say it," he demanded, his voice hoarse with strain. "Say 'I do.'" Another withdrawal, another world-shattering return. Stars exploded behind her eyelids.
"Ah! I do!" The cry was choked, ragged, but unmistakable.
The pressure vanished from her mouth. He let her gasp in the air, a satisfied smirk carving his features. "There is my bride." Now, with the seal broken, her cries began to punctuate his movements—sharp, rhythmic ahs that echoed off the walls. He fucked her in earnest, each piston-like drive of his hips designed to map her deepest, most secret places.
He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and fear and arousal as he pounded into her. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the raw sound of their joining filled the room. "My wife," he snarled, lips against her damp skin, the word a possessive incantation. "My human wife."
She was lost in a haze of sensation, each thrust a bolt of lightning—a divine, devilish punishment that tore a symphony of moans from her throat. He shifted slightly, angling his hips, and the universe narrowed to a single, shocking point of contact.
Ah! Her back arched off the bed as he found her G-spot, a direct hit with every plunge.
His eyes, dark and glittering, watched her unravel. He studied the flutter of her heavy eyelids, the helpless part of her lips, the furious blush staining her cheeks. The sight of her ruin made him harder, more feral. Suddenly, he hooked his arms under her thighs, pulling them over his shoulders, lifting her pelvis clear off the bed. The new angle was obscenely deep. He drove into her like a creature possessed, each stroke hitting depths that transformed her cries into screams.
"Too big?" he panted, the pace never faltering. "Too deep?"
"Yes! AH! "
He leaned down, capturing a peaked nipple in his hot, wet mouth, sucking fiercely as he continued his brutal rhythm. "Too much for your human pussy?" he mocked, the words vibrating against her sensitive flesh. He knew. He knew he was pushing her past any sane limit. "Answer me."
"YES!"
"Too much?" he asked again, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Should I stop, little storm? Or should I keep fucking this sweet, tight hole until you pass out?" He released her breast to wrap a large hand around her throat, forcing her glazed eyes to meet his. His massive length slammed home to punctuate each word.
"Keep going! Please!" she begged.
Dark pleasure flashed in his eyes. He released her throat, reclaiming his grip on her thighs, holding her wide open as he pistoned into her with renewed, terrifying force. "Good girl," he growled. The sound of her pleasure, those broken, rhythmic cries, was a drug.
"You like this?" he taunted, his breath coming in harsh gusts. "Being railed by a Lord of Darkness? By the man you swore to hate?" He emphasized the question with a deeper, twisting thrust, as if to touch her very soul.
"Yes!" The word ripped from her as a scream, and it triggered her climax. Her body seized, her inner walls clenching around him in frantic, milking spasms. Her vision whited out; her head fell back, saliva tracing a silver line from her parted lips to the sheets fisted in her hands.
Her climax shattered his control. With a roar that seemed to shake the room, he hammered into her one last, devastating time, his own release erupting in hot, endless pulses. He swelled inside her, pumping his seed deep into her womb—a claim as primal as the act itself. "My wife," he groaned, the possessiveness softening into something like reverence.
He fucked her through it, slow, deep rolls of his hips to milk every last drop into her receptive body. "You're mine," he growled, the words final. "My beautiful wife."
Finally, he pulled out. He looked down at her—at the beautiful, used wreck of her. His seed leaked from her swollen, reddened lips, a stark testament to their union. A deeply satisfied smirk touched his mouth as he leaned down, gathered her limp form into his arms, and carried her toward the bathroom.
The bathroom was a temple of steam and soft light. He set her down on the plush vanity rug, her legs still unsteady, her body humming with the echoes of his possession. Without a word, he turned to the deep, free-standing tub and began to fill it, testing the temperature with his hand. The sound of rushing water was the only noise in the warm, tiled space.
He turned back to her, his earlier ferocity banked to a smoldering ember. His eyes, still dark with that otherworldly glint, now held a different intensity—one of focus, of ritual. With a tenderness that belied his brutal strength, he reached for the hem of the ruined shirt she wore.
"Lift your arms, little storm."
His voice was a low rumble, stripped of its mocking edge. She complied, shivering as the cool air touched her skin again. He disposed of the garment, then his own, his movements efficient, unhurried. He was a landscape of powerful muscle and pale scars in the misty light, a god of war in a chamber of peace.
He scooped her up again—a gesture that now felt less like capture and more like ceremony—and stepped into the tub. The water was perfect, achingly hot, lapping at her sore muscles as he settled them both, her back against his chest.
A sigh escaped her, half-pain, half-profound relief. He heard it. His arms came around her, not to restrain, but to support. He reached for a vessel, dipped it in the water, and poured it slowly over her shoulders. The cascade was a liquid blanket, warming her to her core.
"Let it take the sting away," he murmured against her wet hair.
He took a cake of soap, rich with the scent of sandalwood and cedar—his scent. He worked it between his palms until a thick lather formed, and then his hands were on her. They moved over her skin with a shocking reverence. Over the curve of her shoulder, down the length of her arm, across her collarbone. He washed not just the evidence of their coupling, but the phantom touch of every fear, every struggle that had come before. His touch was thorough, methodical, mapping her anew not as a territory to conquer, but as a sanctuary to cherish.
His lathered hands slid over her breasts, cupping their fullness, his thumbs circling her peaked nipples with a gentleness that made her breath catch. It was not a demand for arousal, but an act of homage.
"So beautiful," he breathed into the steam, the words a secret for her skin alone. "Every inch. Mine to mark, and mine to soothe."
He guided her to lean forward, and his soap-slick hands swept down the tense plane of her back, kneading the muscles at the base of her spine where the deepest aches had gathered. She moaned, this time a pure sound of release. He washed the long line of her spine, the swell of her hips, each stroke a silent apology and a reaffirmation.
When he turned her gently to face him, the water swirling between them, his expression was unguarded. The smirk was gone. In its place was a raw, stark possession that ran deeper than pride. He traced the line of her jaw with a wet, clean finger.
"Look at me," he said, and it was a request.
She met his gaze. He saw the fatigue, the surrender, the lingering shock—and the quiet trust beginning to glimmer beneath it all. It humbled him. He lowered his forehead to hers, their breath mingling in the humid air.
"My wife," he said, and the word was no longer a snarl, but a vow soaked in steam and sincerity.
He reached for a pitcher of clean water to rinse her. She took it from his hands, her own movements small but sure.
"My turn," she whispered.
A flicker of surprise, then profound pleasure, warmed his eyes. He inclined his head, granting her the privilege. She poured the clear water over his broad shoulders, watching it sluice through the valleys of his muscles, carrying the lather away. She took the soap and, with hesitant courage, laid her hands on him.
She washed the sweat from his chest, the corded strength of his neck. She traced the ridges of old scars, learning the history written on him in silver lines. Her touch was a question, and his stillness was the answer. She washed his arms, the very instruments of his power and her pleasure, and felt him tremble under her ministrations. It was a tremor of control relinquished.
When she was done, they simply remained, entwined in the cooling water. He pulled her close again, her head tucked beneath his chin, her ear over the steady, powerful beat of his heart. His fingers idly combed through her wet hair, untangling knots with infinite patience.
"I hated you," she said softly, the words having no heat now, only the weight of a confessed truth.
His chest vibrated with a low, acknowledging hum. "I know." His lips brushed her hairline. "And I coveted you. Your spirit. Your fire. The way you stood against the darkness… in me." He paused, choosing words a creature like him seldom used. "Hatred and desire are cousins. Both burn. Tonight… we forged something new from that fire."
The water was turning tepid, but neither moved. In this quiet pool, they were not a Lord of Darkness and a human woman. They were two souls, laid bare and washed clean, finding an unexpected peace in the aftermath of the storm.
Finally, he stirred. He rose from the water, a figure of immense, dripping power, and lifted her with him. He wrapped her in a towel so large and soft it swallowed her whole, rubbing her skin until it glowed pink. He dried himself with quick efficiency before attending to her hair, blotting the dark strands with a tenderness that made her throat tighten.
He carried her not back to the scene of their frenzy, but to a adjoining chamber where a large bed lay covered in clean, dark linen. He laid her down and slid in beside her, drawing the covers over them both. He pulled her into the curve of his body, her back to his front, his arm a heavy, secure weight around her waist, his palm splayed possessively—but gently—over her stomach.
The last of the tension melted from her. In the dark, his voice was the final, quiet rumble before sleep.
"Rest, my storm. You are safe. You are home."
And for the first time, in the heart of the darkness he commanded, she believed it.
To be continued...