#devlon smut

A low snarl rips from his chest, a broad, calloused palm biting into your thigh, keeping you from slamming it home. He twists your leg to the side, pulling it up over his hip, stepping into you so you’re tipping backward—forced to desperately cling to him to keep from falling to the kitchen floor.

“Let me go, brute,” you hiss, digging your nails into the muscle cording his shoulders, hanging from his strength. “I would sooner sleep outside this winter than visit your blasted brother again. He makes a pass at me every time you look away.”

“If you’d stop seducing him with those eyes of yours, there wouldn’t be a problem,” he growls, free arm wrapping around your waist, keeping you within his warmth. “I can’t take you anywhere without something happening.”

“You’re putting this on me?” You snarl, arms aching from holding him so tight, having spent the afternoon drying the various pots and pans from lunch, then immediately switching to preparing dinner, which is laying untouched atop the table. “Don’t you feel any sense of protection for your wife? Your own brother is trying to steal me out from right beneath your nose, ‘Lo. Aren’t you embarrassed? Ashamed? I’m not some common whore to be traded about, no matter how you like to say so.”

Rough fingertips splay across your ribs, skating beside your breast, possessively. “He knows what would happen to him if he so much as touched something of mine. If advances have been made, you have only yourself to blame, temptress that you are.”

“That’s your answer?” You hiss. “That it’s my fault your brother keeps trying to take liberties with me? You should train your dogs better.”

Devlon growls in warning. “He is my brother, and you will show him the respect he deserves. He is a fully fledged warrior, and you will do well to treat him as one.” He pulls you tighter to his body, your back straining with the curve, gritting your teeth against the ache. “Or do I need to remind you of your placement in this world?” You snarl your disagreement, hands raising to the thick, dark locks of his hair, nails scraping over his scalp. “I will submit to my husband, and my husband only. If you know so thoroughly that I am yours, why tolerate any other male attempting to put his hands on me. Do you have no sense of possession? As your wife, I would expect more aggression from you, but clearly this brother of yours has something over you if you’re at his mercy—”

“I will not have you sewing discord within my family, witch.” Lip curls at the title, hands lowering from his hair, trailing down his back, just grazing the great wings—

The second you do, Illyrian instinct kicks in, and he goes for the throat. Muscle tenses, then you turn soft and pliable in his arms. Calloused fingers stroke over the sensitive skin placatingly, as if calming a beast through scratching behind its ears. Heat flushes your cheeks, legs trembling, arms turning weak and limp as the stimulation settles in the pit of your belly.

“Don’t… Quit it, ‘Lo,” you pant, shooting him a scathing glare. He can’t just do this every time you have an argument. And yet it always seems to end with you flipped on your back, a larger pair of wings hiding you from the world, your fingers running through his hair while his hips grind against your own.

Hands fall away from his wings, instead pulling to your chest, attempting to squirm out of his dominating hold, feeling all of a sudden as though his hands are all over your body, touching the curve of your hip, the softness of your waist, the hollow of your throat. “We aren’t done with this argument,” you manage, heat already pounding between your legs.

“Argument?” He pulls you tighter to his chest, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “you speak of a children’s sparring match like it’s a war.”

Grit your teeth. “Stop infantilising me. You don’t give me proper attention, or the topics I bring up. A good husband listens to his wife.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says dismissively, though his hands have slowed on your wings. You’re grateful for the reprieve.

“You’re being dense,” you snap, regaining enough to control to steady yourself with the one leg that’s still planted on the floor. “I would’ve though as warlord you would understand when to pick your battles—you’re always saying that makes a good warrior.”

“You think we were battling?” He sneers, pulling your thigh tighter over his hip. “You’d be on the floor painted black and blue if we were.”

“This house is my battle ground,” you hiss sharply, anger flaring in your blood at the nonchalance he spoke about hurting you with. “As your wife, home and family are my designated areas. You don’t hear me asking what you spoke about during those meetings of yours, because I know my place. And I don’t expect your help in the kitchen other than perhaps giving me coin to buy the necessary materials, because that isn’t your place. Your brother’s actions are an attack on our family, and as a relatively dignified male, I expect you to defend it.” You finish, keeping your attention locked with his sharp hazel eyes.

Dark brows furrow as his attention pierces into you, the edges of his mouth twisted in an almost permanent frown. You fight to keep from shifting in his hold as he judges your points.

“Unnervingly sound reasoning, as usual,” he mutters, relenting at last. Lips quirk in triumph, making him shoot you a dark glance, fingers biting into your thigh. “I suppose it’s not acceptable for him to put his hands on my wife, even if provoked.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you snap, heat finally receding enough for you to be rational. “Where did that idea even come from? I’ve been nothing but loyal to you.” He snarls roughly at that, hips pressing into your abdomen. “Don’t lie to me, wife. Do you even understand the strain you put on me to resist taking you before our wedding night?”

Lips part as heat flows between you, something hard and stiff pressing into you, the shape of his arousal more prominent that it was before. “What are you talking about?” You breathe, his mouth poised to devour your own. A muscle feathers in his jaw, and you can feel the strength contained within his warrior’s body seeping into your own. “You know what I’m talking about,” he growls. “You are female. You should hold no power over me.”

You can do nothing but stare up into his hazel eyes, two siphons glittering on either shoulder, blazing storm-cloud grey. “And yet every day drove me deeper into madness. Every day I was denied you, deprived of you.” Lips brush over your own, a roughened promise whispered in secret. “I could have killed on our wedding day, with how intense that strain was.”

He had seemed ill-tempered—you’d assumed he was simply innately miserable, rather than it being out of impatience. “‘Lo…” you plead, softly, breathlessly.

“It should not be me that feels that way alone,” he growls, hand sliding up between your wings, your spine arching. “I should not be the one subject to you.”

“Yet here you are,” you manage, wishing he would shut up and put his mouth over your own already. He snarls, silencing you. “Can you even comprehend the need I have for you? Understand a fraction of the longing I feel for you? How my bones groan to have you near?”

The world around him falls away, negative space. “Show me,” you breathe, “show me.”

Hot lips press over your own, hand releasing your leg in favour of sliding beneath your ass, hauling you upward. Thighs wrap tight around his hips, your hands cupping his jaw as he groans up into the kiss, head tipped back to go deeper. Fingers thread through the thickness of his dark hair, rolling your hips against him, hands dipping lower. Skating over his shoulders, down his back.

He snarls into your mouth as your nails graze the base of his wings, the tendons shuddering beneath the feather-light touch. His hold loosens, allowing you to slide down a little, his arousal pressing flush to your centre. Hips buck as you attach your mouth to his neck, your Lord stalking from the kitchen, prowling through your house so he can bed you. Teeth scrape over a pulse point, hands squeezing your ass in response, shifting you in his arms so your centre rubs over him.

Forearm slides beneath you, hand gripping the nape of your neck, unlatching your mouth from his throat. Siphons burn the colour of thunder-clouds, hazel sharp as it pierces into you. “Hands and knees,” he grits out. “On the double.”

Neither of you dare waste a second. The moment he releases you, ties are loosened, clothes are strewn across the floor, wings flare for balance as you’re practically shoved onto the bed. Feel the heavy weight of his cock between your legs, one arm sliding down your front, calloused fingers plying you apart enough so you’ll be able to take him. “‘Lo, please…” you pant, tightening around his digits as they slide in and out, curling softly against spots he knows you like.

Pleasure weakens your muscles, lowering onto your forearms, wings twitching near their tips, shuddering as heat pulses between your legs. “I need you relaxed,” he grits out, your spine curving at the rough drag of the syllables. “I am relaxed,” you pant, “do it.”

Your Lord curses under his breath, then pulls away; you whine at the emptiness. It’s transformed into a moan when the tip of his cock presses to your entrance instead, poised to fill you up—if he would just push his hips forward. You hiss, telling him to get on with it, but he only slides in the first inch or so, nowhere near enough yet. “What are you doing?” You manage breathlessly, attempting to shift to peer at him, but he holds you still.

“Do you feel how badly you want that?” He growls, pulling out a little more. You could scream at him to slam in, but it won’t get you anywhere, so you nod your head instead, choosing compliance over disobedience. “Imagine constantly feeling that need every time someone so much as walked in the same room as you. Do you see how cruel you were?” A moan slips from your lips, his hand rising from between your legs to grip your breast, thumbing at the sensitive peak of your nipple. “I’m sorry, ‘Lo,” you pant, practically trembling beneath his hands. “I’m so sorry…”

“I bet you’re fucking sorry,” he snarls. “Not so nice being on the receiving end, is it?”

Swallow thickly, heartbeat spiking at the vulgar language. “Please, ‘Lo. Please, I need you.” Fingers pinch the sensitive skin. “Of course you do.”

Then he slides in, and you’re pressed forward, making room for him until his hips are tight against the backs of your thighs. Eyes roll with pleasure, harsh pants of relieve spilling from your lips as you clamp down on him. Words blur and fumble, a strange mesh of pleading sounds pouring into the air, the duvet doing nothing to muffle them. “That’s better,” he groans, drawing his hips back in favour of slamming in. You cry out, pleasure rocking your mind as he sets a punishing pace, hips smacking against your thighs, cock touching those previously stimulated spots, having you tighten around him.

Canines scrape over the junction of your neck and shoulder, finding the part he likes, where you’ll struggle to conceal the mark. Teeth bite down and you moan, wings fluttering in pleasure as he presses against them, pinning them to your back. Vision blurs with the stimulation, tears brimming along your lashes, bursting with the need to have him this deep inside you at all times, to be so utterly and completely full there’s hardly room for breath.

Your husband pulls away, gripping you by the hips, slamming you back against him in time with the rough pace he’s chosen. Cries spill helplessly from your chest as he puts his weight behind each thrust, grinding his hips against you so he’ll touch more of the lovely, mouth-watering places inside you. You try to cover your mouth but he’s having none of it, one hand fisting in your hair as he tugs you upright, forcing your spine to curve to his will as he pounds into you.

Waves of dizzying pleasure crest over your skin, a scream whimpering from your mouth as you flutter around his cock, sending him over the edge. He snarls as it hits him, release spurting into you, feeling the thick liquid spill deep inside, filling you up and stuffing you full. Eyes slide shut, pushing tears down your cheeks while muscles spasm from overstimulation. The last waves finish, and his grip loosens on you, allowing you to collapse down into the mattress, exhausted.

The bed dips to your left as he settles beside you, one great wing splaying across your back, tucking you beneath it. Take your time to regain your strength, before rolling closer, your own wings folding to allow you to press into the sturdy heat of his side. “What about supper?” You question quietly, eyes still shut as you bask in the aftermath. He grunts noncommittally. “We can eat later.”

As if on cue, your stomach rumbles, hunger beginning to make an appearance now your mind is unoccupied. You groan, brows narrowing into a frown before you sigh, making to push up from the bed. His wing presses you down, keeping you laying comfortably on your front. “I’ll get it,” he mutters, standing and moving to kitchen.

When he returns, you’ve burrowed under the covers, closer to his side than your own, eyes shut, breathing deep and even. He rolls his eyes, setting the plates down on the tables either side your large bed.

You’ll wake up in an hour or so, once you’re sufficiently rested.

Then it’ll be time for round two.