She looked up.

The word ’wives’ had arrived.

Specifically: ’wives.’ Plural. The specific plural of the word as it related to this man in the context of what had just been inside her and what she was currently holding and what the afternoon had been.

Her jaw clenched.

"’...Wives.’" The word came out flat. Compressed. "’As in—more than one.’"

"’Several.’"

Her grip tightened slightly. Not intentionally.

"’What man,’" she said—slowly, each word placed with the careful precision of a woman who is very close to losing access to her indoor voice—"’marries several women.’"

He reached up.

Found her chin with two fingers. Tilted her face toward his.

"’Me,’" he said.

Simple. Clean. The single syllable of a man who has answered this question in several territories and considers it settled.

She looked at him from between his two fingers at her jaw.

"’...You bastard.’"

"’Mm.’"

Her hand was still where it was. His balls, warm, heavy, comprehensively full in her palm. She looked at them. Then at his cock, which had not changed its opinion about anything during this conversation.

He said: "’Sit on it.’"

She looked at the cock.

Looked at him.

"’...I’m not—’" She stopped. Her body was already doing something her pride was not consulting about—her thighs had shifted, her hips had rotated fractionally, the specific unconscious repositioning of someone whose body has been comprehensively trained over a significant afternoon and remembers the training. "’I’m not—I just—’"

He reached into her hair.

Gathered it.

Pulled—not up, just ’back’, enough to disengage her comfortable position in his lap and bring her weight forward—stood her, in one continuous motion, her feet finding the rock at the pool’s edge. Her legs held her. Barely. Her thighs remembered what they were for.

She was standing.

His hands moved to her hips.

She reached back, found the position, found where his cock was—

"’Not that hole.’"

She froze.

The words landed with the specific, precise weight of three words that have been arranged in that exact order for one specific purpose.

She turned her head.

Looked at him over her shoulder.

"’...What.’"

"’The other one,’" he said.

His hands were at her hips. His cock, behind her, not moving—just: present, warm, positioned.

She looked forward. At the mountain. At the pool’s surface.

"’I’m not—’" Her voice came out unsteady. "’That’s—I cannot—it will not—’"

"’It will,’" he said.

She trembled.

Full body. The deep tremor of someone who has learned, over the course of a comprehensive afternoon, that the things she’s confident ’cannot’ happen tend to happen anyway, that her body has been repeatedly shown to have opinions distinct from her own, and that the man at her back has a thoroughness she has found reliable.

"’You—’"

His hands at her hips tightened.

"’NGH—’"

Pulled her backward.

His cock, positioned at the other entrance—the one that had not yet been part of today’s curriculum—pressed forward at the same moment as his hands pulled her back.

She had no time.

He entered her.

’One stroke.’ Not graduated, not incremental, not the patient single-inch patience of earlier—one committed, complete forward press of his hips, his cock entering her ass with the total, unstoppable certainty of something that has decided.

"’—AAAHHHNN~!!♡♡—’"

The cry left her body before she could shape it. It was not a word. It was not language. It was the full, uncontrolled vocal output of a body receiving something in a territory that had never been mapped—the sound of seven feet of Stone bloodline reaching an entirely new register, her voice cracking at its peak and coming back down rough, her back snapping into a rigid arch, her hands flying forward to find the rock at the pool’s edge.

Her fingers found the stone and sank into it.

The rock crumbled.

Bronze Body strength, delivered without modulation, her fingers entering the solid rock face with the specific force of a body that has lost access to proportionality.

He was inside her.

’Inside her.’ The other place. The place she had been certain about and was now being revised on—her walls clamping around him with a total, seizing tightness that surpassed anything earlier, her whole body rigid with it, her back against his chest.

He wrapped both arms around her.

One arm across her chest—his hand cupping her left breast from below, the weight of it filling his palm completely, his fingers closing around it. His thumb finding the nipple. The other hand spread flat against her stomach, pressing her back into him.

His mouth found her shoulder.

Bit.

"’—NHHGH~!!♡—’"

The bite was—the bite was in the same place as before, the exact location his teeth had found the fourth time and the seventh time and apparently had committed to as the correct address, the particular nerve cluster at the junction of her neck and shoulder that her body had spent the afternoon being educated about.

She felt the flesh compress between his teeth. She felt the bruise forming. She felt her cunt, despite being empty, clench in solidarity with the occupation happening in the adjacent territory.

Her eyes were white.

He spoke against her shoulder—his mouth pressed to the skin there, his voice arriving through his teeth still in her, the words vibrating through the bite:

"’Tell me where the mercenary queen is,’" he said.

The words arranged themselves slowly.

She was on her feet at the bank of a mountain pool with his cock in her ass, his teeth in her shoulder, his hand on her breast, his body against her back, and she was being asked to produce language.

"’—NGH~—you—’" Her voice came out from somewhere she couldn’t locate. "’—I already—I ’told’ you—’"

His teeth pressed harder.

"’—HAEKK~!!—’" Her back arched further. His cock, inside her, moved with the arch—pressed deeper with the shift in angle, the specific geometry of her body’s response driving him further into her. "’—NHHGH~—the third ring—the third formation door—’"

His thumb rolled her nipple.

She couldn’t.

"’—AAHH~!!♡—the ’right’ side of the runic chair—the primary vessel stems—right side—’"

His hand at her stomach pressed harder. Pulled her back against him.

"’—NGH~—she’s in the northeast face—there’s a crack in the mountain where the stone formation seals the entrance—you need a qi signature above Diamond Body to locate—’"

He bit down.

"’—NHHHAAHH~!!♡♡—’"

The cry sent birds from the far ridge. They scattered into the copper sky in a burst of wings, dark against the approaching evening, the sound of her voice traveling further than it had in a while.

His cock shifted.

The specific, small adjustment of a man who has found the interior angle that produces the specific result he’s looking for—a fractional tilt of his hips, his cock moving inside her to press against a different surface—

"’HAAANNH~!!♡—NGH—NGH—NGH—’"

Her knees.

The only reason she was upright was his arm around her chest and her fingers in the crumbling rock. Her legs had delivered the message that they were done. They were done. They had been done for several minutes and had been running on reserve and the reserve was now empty.

His mouth at her shoulder released. His lips moved up—along the side of her neck, to her jaw, past the corner of her jaw to her ear.

He said, quietly, into it:

"’Now you’re my cock’s sleeve.’"