The Throne's Confession

The chair groaned beneath them, a throne of surrender. As Kimberly rode him, each deep, claiming stroke peeled back another century of his solitude. His hands, once anchoring her, now trembled against her skin—not with hunger for blood, but with the terrifying vulnerability of a need finally met. The immortal who commanded everything was begging, not with words, but with the raw, open-mouthed press of his face against her breast, as if he could drink her very soul into the hollow of his bones.