Duke of the Beast and the Vicarious Bride - Chapter 71

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※ This work contains depictions of coercive relationships, explicit language, and other graphic content. Reader discretion is advised.

For one of his immense size, he moved with near-silence, crossing swiftly to the bed. The mattress dipped as he settled beside her—a sensation at once threatening and tantalising.

“…….”

But though he had drawn back the covers, Caligo did not proceed directly to the matter at hand, as was his custom.

Fiona’s feet twitched with unaccountable nervousness. Then came a sound that made her start violently—a soft snuffling, the noise of him drawing breath through his nose.

Surely not. Surely he could not be smelling the scent of her arousal.

“Fiona.”

His voice, molten as lava, made her clench involuntarily. Perhaps it was the lingering aftermath of her pleasure, but his tone seemed to caress her ears.

“Hurry. Do it.”

She had to begin before her moisture dried. At her urging, Caligo shifted his weight, as though in acknowledgement.

He lifted the hem of her shift, Fiona still half-kneeling before him. She felt her small clothes, soaked with her essence, peel away, a thread of viscous fluid stretching briefly before breaking. And again, that soft snuffling sound, as he inhaled.

“Smell….”

Fiona’s head swam as though struck. That he should know such a word, that he should speak it aloud—the shame of it threatened to undo her entirely.

“Smell? What smell are you talking about!”

Mortification beyond bearing made her snap, but Caligo only continued to draw in her scent.

Surely he was not still holding her small clothes? But ill premonitions, she knew, were rarely wrong.

She felt him inhale deeply, sensing his excitement mounting. Then, that enormous member pressed against her entrance.

“Ahhn!”

Caligo pushed swiftly into the space between her thighs, into that snug place that seemed prepared for him alone.

Compared to the pitch darkness of the stone chamber below, the bedchamber was illuminated by faint light seeping through minute cracks, granting some visibility.

Caligo’s sight, many times keener than a human’s, took in the slender line of Fiona’s back as she clutched the pillow, curled tight in anticipation.

Jayden had told him that all women preferred receiving a man in this manner—on their hands and knees.

And after last night, tonight she awaited him again in this same posture. Clearly, Fiona, too, favoured this position. Whatever might please her, Caligo was willing to provide.

That she awaited him thus, that her scent touched his nostrils—today was in every way exceptional. With his keen senses, Caligo could perceive it: the fragrance of Fiona, which he so loved, permeated the air about the bed.

Unlike her usual scent, mingled with flowers, this was denser, more concentrated—a perfume that, merely by inhaling, filled his mouth with saliva and made his member throb near to bursting.

It was an aroma he typically encountered only in the throes of their coupling. Yet tonight, before he had even climbed into the bed, it had already begun to overwhelm his senses.

And when he removed her smallclothes, the scent grew only more potent, maddening him so thoroughly that his head swam. Without conscious thought, he buried his nose in that tiny scrap of fabric. Even as he felt himself on the verge of spilling, he thrust his hips in a frenzy.

“Hnngh! Ah! Nngh!”

There was no rhythm, no restraint—only the punishing drive of his hips from the moment of entry, wrenching short, laboured cries from Fiona’s lips.

It occurred to him then, belatedly, that tonight there had been no application of oil, as on previous occasions. The lewd scent she exuded had so captivated him that he had forgotten entirely. Yet her inner walls were slick and wet, as though she had prepared herself in advance.

When Fiona had shown him that sight the night before, Caligo’s already tenuous reason had nearly deserted him entirely. He had secretly hoped to witness it again tonight.