Page 29 of His Emotional Support Snack

"Open for me, little rat," I murmur, my voice a dark vibration against her skin. "Let me taste my cure."

She whimpers, her knees falling wider. I drag my tongue along her slick pussy. She cries out, her fingers twisting violently into the bedsheets. The taste is a revelation—musk and sweet nectar, a different kind of magic that sets my blood on fire. I circle the sensitive peak, drawing it into my mouth, suckling with a steady, relentless rhythm.

“Oh… My lord!”

"Your honey is as sweet as your blood," I rasp, pulling back just enough to admire the deep flush spreading across her chest.

“Please…” she begs, her hands flailing gently at her sides.

I press two fingers inside her wetness, curling upward, mimicking a slow, rhythmic claiming. The magic hums through my fingertips, sensitizing her nerves, amplifying the friction. Her hips chase the movement, desperate, rising off the mattress.

"Yes, ride my fingers. Show me how much you need this." I alternate the pressure, licking, devouring her cries as the magic sparks around us. "You belong to me. Let go."

She shatters. A violent, shuddering release grips my fingers tightly. Her back arches off the mattress, a breathless sob tearing from her throat as the climax ripples through her muscles. I drink her pleasure, swallowing the sweet nectar until her trembling subsides into soft, erratic gasps.

I crawl back up her body, pressing my lips to her sweat-dampened temple. My own body aches, drawn taut as a bowstring. The pressure in my groin is a vicious, throbbing demand, aching for release.

She catches her breath, her eyes fluttering open. Shifting her hips, her hand brushes the rigid bulge beneath my linen trousers.

"What about you?" she whispers, her voice raspy, a tentative slide of her fingers over the fabric.

I strip the linen away, kicking the trousers off the bed. My length springs free, thick and leaking pre-come at the tip. I guide her hand downward, wrapping her roughened fingers around my shaft.

"Help me." The command is ragged, stripped of my usual polish.

She grips me. The friction of her palm against my burning skin nearly snaps my control. She moves her hand up and down, a hesitant, exploratory stroke. I cover her hand with mine, correcting the grip, setting a brutal, desperate pace.

“More?” She questions, her voice soft and raspy.

"Tighter," I grunt, my hips bucking upward to meet her stroke. "Just like that. Milk it from me."

The visual of her dark hair spread across my pillows, her beautiful, scarred body flushed with satisfaction, and her hand wrapped around my leaking cock drives the fever higher. My magic sparks violently, popping in the air above us, casting dancing shadows against the canopy. The pressure builds to a blinding crescendo.

"Esmeralda," I groan, my jaw locking.

With a guttural roar, I spill into her hand. My body locks tight, the release wracking through my muscles in intense, agonizing waves. I collapse against the mattress beside her, my chest heaving, struggling to drag oxygen into my burning lungs.

The silence of the room returns, broken only by our erratic breathing.

I gather her into my arms, pulling her flush against my side. We tangle together in the dark, the silk sheets wrapping around our sweat-slicked limbs. She tucks her head under my chin, her breathing evening out into a soft, steady rhythm. Her fingers rest lightly over my heart, the chaotic magic purring happily beneath her touch.

I stare up at the draped canopy, the shadows no longer twisting with anger, but standing as silent sentinels.

The political chessboard of Vhoig waits outside these iron doors. Zatori will search for fractures. The high council will demand adherence to the rigid, ancient traditions of the Khuzuth. A human laborer holding the heart of a warlord is an anomaly they will attempt to eradicate.

Let them try.

I will tear down the ancient laws of the Khuzuth. I will rewrite the decrees of Vhoig in the blood of any noble who dares to challenge my claim. I will build an empire around her, a fortress of chaos and shadow, ensuring no harm ever touches her or the boy she claimed as her own.

She is my cure. My equal. My undisputed fate.

19

ESME

The memory of his touch lingers like a phantom brand against my skin.

A few short days ago, the master suite was a battlefield of shadows and suffocating tension. Now, the silk sheets carry the scent of crackling ozone and shared heat. The desperate, fierce intensity of our first true night together—the way he traced every scar on my ribs, the terrifying, possessive weight of his magic blanketing the bed—fundamentally shifted the axis of my survival. I am no longer a prop clinging to a lie. The monster is my sanctuary, and I am his cure.