He didn’t give her a chance to wake. Didn’t allow her to rouse and pepper him with questions.
He needed this moment.
With her.
Vulnerable and delicate. Helplessly at his mercy.
Nyxarion purred. Thrumming deep in the barrel of his chest, he poured his mate song into her skull. Forcing her to submit, sohe could center himself in her peace. Claim a piece of her, just for himself. Tend what no other living thing could ever see.
The lines etched between her brows smoothed as the tension in her muscles went lax. Pliant. Her breaths slowed, growing deep and rhythmic as some primitive part of her heart his song and submitted. Sagging against him.
Trusting him.
And for a long, selfish moment, he merely watched her. Obsessing over the fan of dark lashes, the dainty spread of gills he had forced upon her. Cherishing each and every breath that passed between her lips from a current he had reshaped to suit her.
Thalos fed her sun clams.
But Nyxarion had given her the sea.
Nyxarion would give hereverything.
All she had to do was give him… milk.
Proof that his venom had taken root. That his seed was thriving.
Lifting one hand, he traced the swell of her breast.
Delicate.
Pretty little nipples growing plump in pregnancy. Edged in tiny, sunset scales that sparkled with an iridescent sheen.
Warm. A delicious weight, even here, where weight was meaningless. The thrum of her tiny Siren heart pulsing beneath his palm. The rhythm a stark aberration from his own steady vitality.
Squeezing, tentative at first, he began to knead. Working the fat, he let his thumb sweep down. From the top of that plush globe, dragging down. To her nipple. Offering a gentle, yet firm pull at that peak only to release it, just to watch it spring back.
Her skin grew tight. Elastic and pebbled.
Redoubling his purr, Nyx crooned for her. Rewarding, even as he grew bold. Pressing and releasing. Pulling her delicate skin taut and let it relax.
Even sedated, lulled by the weight of his song, her breath hitched. A tiny bubble of sound caught behind her gills.
Tracing her edges, he swept his other hand beneath her. Touched her belly long enough to watch her biolume ripple, before he claimed her other breast.
Cupping and squeezing, increasing the pressure as he worked the glands deep inside.
There was not plume of milk.
Nothing beading at the tip of pretty nipples.
He hadn’t expected it. Not really. Not so soon, and before the second trimester had truly begun. And yet… he continued to milk her. Palms moving in that ancient rhythm. Until it became something meditative. Soothing.
A hushed sort of intimacy he’d taken all for himself.
Something private.
Hidden.
His cock stirred.