by Nora Ash
I catch a glimpse of what looks like a jar of Vaseline before he disappears behind me again, and a flutter of worry makes my stomach knot. Surely, he wouldn’t…?
A flicker of light straight ahead distracts me from my uneasy thoughts, and I frown as the TV comes to life. Peter changes the channel to the 24-hour news station and throws the remote on the couch in front of me. From the sounds of it, it seems they’re discussing inner-city school programs.
“What…?” I squint, confused, at the screen. “You want to watch the news, while we…?”
My only answer is the slick sound of some form of lubrication being rubbed on flesh, and my previous concerns return with an uncomfortable twinge in my gut.
“Er, you’re not going to… I don’t want to do… only vaginal, right? You’re way too big for—”
The massive man behind me leans forward, and I can feel the warmth from his body against my back even though he’s not touching me.
“Trust me.” Those two words brush against my ear in a soft caress. It’s not quite a whisper, but it’s not a command, either. He touches his lips to my hair, lets his hand trail down my back, over my upturned backside and down my hamstring. “I will never hurt you, Leigh.”
I breathe in deeply, taking in his calming alpha pheromones, and feel the beginning knot of anxiety melt away like snow on a warm spring day. In the deepest parts of me I know he’s telling me the truth.
His hand ventures back up from my hamstring and slips in between my thighs to rub gently at my clit. I doesn’t take long for the hot waves of pleasure to set in, and I moan softly as I rock back against his touch.
It’s all the invitation he needs to take things further. Fingers slick with Vaseline slip into my waiting sheath, pumping slowly.
I moan again and close my eyes against the pleasure of feeling him inside of me, even if it isn’t the part of him I crave most. He pushes another finger into me, and that delicious stretch that has my toes curling against the parquet floor sets in. Three, I guess, from the times he’s fingered me before. But they move more easily in me than normal, thanks to the lubrication he’s smeared on them.
“Remember when Bremen’s men forced me to tie you up?”
My eyes pop open at the reminder, and I frown at the TV screen. Why on Earth does he want to talk about that now? “Y-yeah?” My breath catches as his fingertips strum over my G-spot.
“You told me you wanted me to, because you trusted me.” His voice rumbles through the darkened room, making my nipples ache with the unmistakable signs of his own arousal.
“Y-yes?” This time, my voice pitches higher at the end, because just as I say it, another finger forces its way into my already stretched pussy. “Fuck, Peter…!” Four. That’s more than he’s ever given me before, and despite the Vaseline, I buck against the pressure in vain protest until he pinches my clit with his free hand. A sharp shock of bliss makes me tighten around his intruding digits, sending warm tendrils of heat through my abdomen. His cock—and knot—are thicker than this, and despite the difference in sensation at being penetrated by his fingers, my pussy gives in to him with a wet spasm. “Ooh, God, that’s so good….”
“And yet, when they suggested I fist you, you refused,” he continues, his voice calm despite the dark notes of unadulterated lust rolling off his tongue. The slick sound of his lubricated fingers working my pussy are a constant, dirty undertone as I clench my hands around the backrest of the couch and try to focus on what he’s saying.
“You refused me. Am I to take it your trust in me has limits?”
A worrying notion of what, exactly, he’s planning finally cuts through to my conscious mind, and I try to straighten up from my bent-over position. “Don’t be silly—you’ve just got ridiculously big hands, and—ooh G-ngh!”
My protest is interrupted by a long, drawn-out moan when he digs his fingertips straight into my G-spot. My thighs tremble, and I slump forward again to clamp onto the backrest so I don’t lose my footing, panting from the onslaught of sensation melting every muscle down below.
“My hands are no bigger than my knot.” It’s all he says before I feel more pressure at my entrance, and then his thumb forces my already stretched lips to their limits.
Five. He’s got five fingers in me, and it feels like he’s going to break me in half.
“No, Peter—ngh-ooh!” My panicked protest dies on a groan as he rubs my clit with the hand not trying to force its way inside of me. I toss my head back against the ruthless pleasure bursting through my pelvis, simultaneously trying to press my mound against his touch and away from his brutal penetration.
He doesn’t let me escape.
“Hold still.” It’s an alpha’s command, and despite his calm tone, it still cracks against my instincts like a punishing whip. I jerk and freeze before I even realize what I’m doing.
“Good girl,” he says, a hint of smugness in his voice this time.
“You prick,” I pant, but without much conviction. I’m too focused on the five fingers stretching me open to have much energy left over to fight him. “God, why?”
“Because I need you to understand that I will never hurt you.”
“I know that,” I whimper, my fingers clutching desperately at the backrest. He’s gently pressing further into me, and when his knuckles catch against the brutally stretched rim of my weeping pussy, I see stars. Only his now unrelenting stimulation of my hard little clit is keeping me from kicking out.
“You don’t, or you wouldn’t have denied me then, and you wouldn’t be so scared even now.”
“I’m not scared,” I protest. “I just—ah—I just have spatial awareness!”
“You’re trembling like a leaf,” he states matter-of-factly, and I realize he’s right. “You want me to stop, even though taking my fist will give you pleasure so intense only my knot will ever compare. You’re scared, because you don’t trust that I won’t hurt you. And I need you to understand that you will always, always, be safe in my hands. I need you to know, in the very depths of your soul, that I will cherish and protect you always. That nothing and no one will ever get to harm you and live.”
“And you think fisting me is going to do that?” It’s meant as a snarky comeback, but comes out like a trembling sob.
“I know it will,” he says. And then he pushes his hard knuckles through my pussy’s resistance.
I scream until my voice gives out. I pound my hands against the backrest, and I buck like a wild animal in my desperate attempt at dislodging the enormous hand now stuck inside my quivering sheath, but nothing I do changes the fact that his entire hand is up inside of my pussy so deep I can feel the bones in his wrist flex against my fitfully spasming entrance.
Peter holds his hand still inside of me while I thrash and sob in between desperate gulps of air. His other arm is wrapped around my hip, anchoring me to reality while his fingers draw gentle circles against my clit. It takes several minutes before the screaming from every single nerve in my pelvis and abdomen settles down enough that I can even sense the gentle pleasure pulsing through my nub of nerves from his almost soothing stimulation.
It’s only then, when the rushing in my ears dies down and my vision clears from pure white, that I realize my body’s violent response to the brutal penetration is not from agony.
Sure, there’s some pain from the impossible stretch of my mercilessly gaped pussy, but not more than when he knots me. And it’s a good kind of pain—the kind so laced with endorphins it’s nearly impossible to separate from the deep, violent roar of pleasure thrumming through my soft tissue and pelvic bones for every frantic beat of my heart.
He’s right, I think, detached amusement making me gasp out something resembling a laugh. If he doesn’t hurt me by shoving his entire goddamn hand up my reluctant pussy, then nothing he could ever do to me will.
“Take a deep breath, Leigh,” he rumbles behind me, and I draw in a shuddering gasp.
The hand in my sheath slowly, carefully begins to ball up, and I dig m
y nails into the leather of the couch and keep breathing as he forms a fist inside of me.
My pussy desperately tries to clamp down against the new pressure, but it’s no match for the ruthless alpha’s strength. A few seconds later he’s got his hand clenched into a fully-formed fist. Inside of me.
A gush of liquid bursts out of my channel, soaking his arm and my inner thighs and drawing a deep growl laced with unmistakable lust from him.
And I… I break down in tears.
There’s something so indescribably intimate about this—it’s like he’s holding the very essence of my being in his clenched fist, like he’s reaching for my heart itself. And as I stand there, bent over his sofa in the darkened living room only lit by the TV, I finally surrender myself to him completely.
I’ve been scared for so long, as far back as I can remember, scared of the world and the people in it. Scared that the man I’ve fallen in love with would one day break my heart if I confessed my feelings to him. Not anymore. He’s not just my alpha, not just the powerful man my biology chose as a mate based on primitive instincts alone. He’s the one who sacrificed all to save me—he’s the only one who will never, ever hurt me.
“I love you.” I sob it out between gulps for air, my tears still flowing freely down my face. “I love you. I love you.”
“Look at the TV.”
I obey, sniffling and confused by his response to my declaration of love, but I obey.
Images of what looks like Mattenburg River by night taken from a helicopter capture my attention. A red banner across the top reads “Breaking News.” There are flashing police lights down below, and when the camera zooms in, three body bags are clear on the river bank, circled in by police tape.
I blink and strain to hear what the commentators say over the rush of blood pulsing through my body.
“…bodies found only minutes ago. The police have confirmed that one of the drowned men is the former Lord Mayor Michael Bremen, who was dethroned last week by current Lord Mayor Peter Leod in a landslide election. No words yet on the identity of the two other men found in the river tonight, nor any official speculation on the cause of this incident. The Chief of Police has called for a press conference at eight o’clock in the morning. Until then, we can do nothing but mourn the passing of one of Mattenburg’s most prominent figures.”
“He took you from me.” Peter’s growl is deep and filled with emotion—with hate, and something else. Something vulnerable and soft that makes my heart flutter in my chest despite the knowledge of what he’s done.
“He threatened to hurt you, and so he had to die. The two men they found with him are the ones who dared put their hands on you under his command.”
“You killed them,” I whisper, but the roil of emotion in my gut is not from horror. “If the police discover it was you—”
“They won’t. He punctuates the short statement with a slow, agonizing movement forward of the fist lodged deep in my pussy. I cry out as tensed flesh tightens desperately around his thick fist, trying and failing to contain the motion. He slides his hand all the way up to let his knuckles brush gently over my cervix before he pulls back, the heel of his hand threatening to pop out of my straining sheath still clinging onto him for all its worth.
When he reverses the movement and pushes back in, my brain short circuits and my body takes over.
“And even if they did, I wouldn’t let anyone tear us apart. Not now, not ever. You’re the only one I will ever love, Leigh. The only one. If you demand it, I will conquer armies for your affection, and I will kill every man, woman, and child who dares lay a finger on you. My life, my power, is yours. As long as I breathe, I will be yours to command. Yours to love. Yours.”
For every sentence he pumps his fist into me, faster and faster, forcing obscene, wet slurps from my conquered pussy, and I howl in response, too lost in the brutal fisting to form words. There is nothing in my world but his fist and the slick, vanquished depths of my trembling sex, nothing but my own perfect surrender even as he promises me servitude.
When he rolls my clit between the fingers not buried to the forearm inside of me, it’s like the last thread tying me to my own humanity snaps.
I roar like a wounded beast, my pussy clamping down so hard around his still-pumping arm that his bones groan in protest, and I come. I come, and he fists me through it while I thrash and scream and beg. And I come again, as my body shakes with pleasure so intense I plead for mercy. And again. And again.
He only stops fisting me when my legs give out and I slump over the backrest of the couch, so spent that the edges of my vision threaten my consciousness with plumes of black.
The room falls silent around us, save for the monotone chatter on the TV and our ragged gasps for air. He holds his fist still inside of me until my body finally stops trembling. And then, narrowing his hand as much as his bones will allow, he eases it out of my weeping pussy.
I whimper at the loss when he finally pulls free of my clinging flesh, and I am left gaping open and so empty I feel it all the way to my womb. Every nerve below my navel is throbbing with dulled sensation, making my swollen sex clench around air in search of the intimate connection I’ve lost.
But I am not empty for long.
The sound of a zipper being lowered is followed by hands against my sex, pulling my tender lips apart—and then an achingly familiar, hard heat presses against my opening and pushes inside with only my broken cry as resistance.
Peter sheathes his thick cock inside my swollen and overstimulated pussy in one long stroke. He doesn’t give me time to adjust, only wraps his arms around my torso and lifts me up against his chest to support my body against his before he fucks me like the alpha he is.
His hoarse grunts of pleasure are punctuated by my whimpers every time he bottoms out in my depths. I’m too exhausted to even moan, but when he slides his right hand down my body to find my sore clit, I can’t fight against the inevitable.
Despite every cell in my body screaming in protest, his rough strumming of the engorged nub of nerves paired with the unrelenting slide of his thick cock inside of my raw depths has the desired effect. When his knot finally catches inside the mouth of my pussy and his sperm spurts deep into my conquered sheath, I come for him one final time.
Just as I tumble over the cliff of madness with a sob, he clamps his teeth shut around the back of my neck and bites down until he breaks through my skin with a snarl. Marking me as his mate for the rest of time.
I fall into blessed unconsciousness with Leod’s unbreakable promise of forever etched into my skin and singing through my soul.
Demon’s Mark
If you liked Nora’s ALPHA serial, you’ll love
DEMON’S MARK.
Demons seek to dominate a captured Breeder, forcing her into a lifetime of submission and brutal sex, like they have done with her kind for centuries.
But Selma’s not giving in without a fight - and when a powerful Demon Lord loses his heart to her, noone’s ready for the consequences.
Welcome to the dark side of sexy.
BUY THE SCORCHING COLLECTION NOW
Or flip the page to read the first installment for free.
Branded
It had never been easy, being like this.
As a child everyone had assumed that her imagination was just a bit vivid, that maybe the fairy tales read to her before bed were what caused the nightmares and unexplainable daytime terrors. When she hit puberty and the frequency worsened, assumptions of imaginative illusions were dismissed in favor of concern for her mental health; no teenager should believe that the shadows under the bed truly hid monsters, or that the physics teacher was something not-quite-human.
Her fourteenth birthday, and the incident she now silently recalled as ‘The Bogeyman and the Tea Party’, marked the beginning of a few years of sifting through therapists and, eventually, more than seven months in and out of mental institutions until she’d finally learned to keep quiet. It had taken mor
e than a little practice to not flinch or stare at the inhuman features of some of the people walking freely around the city, seemingly leading perfectly normal lives.
However, when the nervous tics started to be less obvious, the monsters seemed to become less noticeable. It wasn’t exactly that they went away, but where before they had stared at her, followed her, they now seemed to ignore her, making it exponentially easier to do the same in return. For years she had actually managed to keep up an appearance of being ‘cured’, to her parents’ great relief. And she had felt... if not cured, then in control; like her illness was managed and manageable.
The young woman sighed softly, leaning her forehead against the cool glass panel, brown eyes staring past the trickling raindrops on the other side of the window and into the gardens of Ravenswood House. She had been perched on the window ledge for a few hours, waiting.
It had been a horrible episode; the worst yet. Maybe if she hadn’t been so unprepared... so much time had gone by without incident that she had let herself believe there would be no more lapses, but that group... It had been dark, which hadn’t exactly helped. Ever since childhood she had been wary of the dark and the things it hid, and as an adult she usually stayed inside after sunset, if at all possible.
Of course, in the wintery half of the year that inclination got more troublesome, and thanks to her supervisor’s poor demonstration of time management skills they were once again behind at work. She’d had to put in some overtime, resulting in emergency grocery shopping hours after the sun had set.
There had been three of them, and they all looked like the dangerous kind; early on she’d noticed a certain pattern in the others, something about their appearance that hinted at what kind of monster they were. It was something in their eyes, and the slight shimmer around them, though she found it hard to pinpoint exactly what. It was most definitely there, though, that dangerous darkness, and before she had learned to hide her fear they had been the ones to go so far as to chase her and, sometimes, harm her. She still had a scar down the back of her left calf from the claws of a horned one that had stalked her for days when she was eleven, seemingly enjoying her terror.
