Erin Everheart had never known humiliation until the fabric of reality shredded around her like cheap silk. One heartbeat she stood in her throne room, black silk robes clinging to every curve of her pale, imperious body, commanding shadows to dance at her fingertips. The next, she was stumbling on a rain-slicked sidewalk in a city that reeked of exhaust and desperation. Cars—metal beasts with glowing eyes—roared past, their horns a cacophony that made her ears ring. The air tasted of metal and grease, thick enough to coat her tongue. Her bare feet, once pampered on marble, now stung against gritty concrete. Mortals stared openly at the wicked queen in her torn gown, the deep crimson velvet now muddied and clinging damply to her full breasts and flared hips.
"I am Erin Everheart," she snarled at the nearest gawker, voice regal even as panic clawed her throat. "Bow, or I shall—" Nothing happened. No shadows rose. No lightning cracked. Her power was gone, leaving only the furious pounding of her heart and the humiliating heat rising in her cheeks.
That was when he appeared.
Quinton leaned against a graffiti-scarred wall, cigarette smoke curling from his lips like a cheap imitation of dragon breath. Tall, lean, with tousled dark hair and eyes the color of storm clouds, he wore a leather jacket that hugged his broad shoulders and jeans that rode low on narrow hips. A silver pendant dangled at his throat—fake arcane nonsense, she would later learn. But in that moment, his slow, predatory smile made something unwelcome flutter low in her belly.
"Lost, sweetheart?" His voice was smooth honey over gravel. "Or should I say… Your Majesty?" He stepped closer, close enough that she caught the warm, masculine scent of his skin—leather, smoke, and something darker, like musk and clean sweat. His fingers brushed her wrist, light as a lover's promise, sending an unwelcome spark straight to her core. "I feel the rift on you. Otherworldly energy. I can help. For the right… compensation."
She should have struck him. Instead, she lifted her chin. "Prove it, mortal, or I will find a way to end you with my bare hands."
He laughed, low and rich, the sound vibrating through her chest. "Deal."
His apartment was a cramped lair on the fifth floor of a building that groaned with age. Peeling wallpaper, a sagging couch, and a single bed that dominated the tiny bedroom. The air smelled of stale coffee and his cologne—spicy, woody, intoxicating. Erin paced like a caged panther while Quinton brewed tea and spun tales of "ley lines" and "convergence rituals." Every word was a lie, she sensed it. Yet when he pressed a warm mug into her hands, their fingers lingered. The heat of his skin seeped into hers, rough calluses against her soft palms. She yanked away, but the ghost of that touch haunted her through the night as she lay rigid on the couch, listening to his steady breathing from the bed.
Days blurred into a slow, torturous dance. Quinton insisted on "alignment sessions"—his hands on her shoulders, thumbs circling the knots of tension while he chanted nonsense in a voice like velvet. "Feel the energy flowing," he murmured, breath warm against her ear. She felt something, all right—the slow throb between her thighs, the way her nipples tightened beneath the thin shirt he'd given her. His scent enveloped her: salt and man and faint arousal. She hated how her body responded, how her regal composure cracked each time his fingers skimmed the swell of her breast "by accident."
"You're trembling, Your Majesty," he whispered one evening, their bodies inches apart during yet another fake incantation. His gaze dropped to her lips. She could smell the mint on his breath, hear the hitch in his own breathing. For one suspended moment, she thought he would kiss her. Instead, he stepped back, leaving her aching and furious.
The pining gnawed at her. In the quiet hours she caught him watching her—eyes dark with hunger as she stretched, the shirt riding up to bare the curve of her ass. She imagined pinning him down, riding him until he begged, then discarding him like a used toy. Yet the fantasy left her wet and restless, fingers slipping between her thighs in the shower, circling her swollen clit while biting back moans. His name slipped out once, unbidden. She came hard, knees buckling, the hot spray of water doing nothing to quench the fire he had lit.
Tension coiled tighter. One night, after a particularly grueling "ritual" that left them both flushed and breathing hard, he cornered her against the kitchen counter. "Tell me what you really want, Erin." His hand rested on her hip, thumb stroking the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up. The touch burned. She could feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against her belly through his jeans—thick, insistent. Her cunt clenched emptily, slickness coating her inner thighs.
"I want to go home," she hissed, even as she arched into him.
His laugh was dark. "Liar." He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "You want this."
She shoved him away, but the damage was done. That night she dreamed of him filling her, stretching her, marking her.
The first real kiss happened during a thunderstorm. Lightning flashed outside the grimy window as Quinton "channeled energy" by pressing his palm to her chest, right over her racing heart. Rain lashed the glass. The room smelled of ozone and their mingled sweat. His hand slid lower, cupping her breast through the fabric. Her nipple pebbled instantly.
"Quinton…" It was half warning, half plea.
He groaned and crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss was fire—tongues tangling, teeth nipping, the taste of him dark and addictive. His hands roamed, squeezing her ass, pulling her flush against the thick bulge in his jeans. She ground against it shamelessly, the friction sending sparks through her clit. Wet heat flooded her pussy. When his fingers slipped under her shirt to pinch her nipple, she moaned into his mouth, the sound raw and needy.
They broke apart gasping. "Not yet," he rasped, eyes wild. "The ritual must be perfect."
Bastard.
The slow burn continued through teasing touches and stolen moments. He would "adjust" her stance during chants, hands lingering on her waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. She would retaliate by bending low to pick up something, letting the shirt ride up to expose her bare cunt—he had forbidden panties "for energy flow." His sharp inhale was victory.
One evening he caught her in the shower. Steam curled around them like incense. Water streamed over her breasts, rivulets tracing her hardened nipples. He stood in the doorway, cock straining against his boxers, the outline clear and mouthwatering. "Let me help you… align."
She didn't stop him when he stepped in fully clothed. His hands soaped her skin—slick, warm, reverent. Fingers circled her clit with expert pressure, sliding through her folds. "So wet for me already," he growled. The sound of his voice mixed with the wet glide of his fingers and her broken gasps. She came with a cry, walls fluttering, knees buckling as he held her through it.
Still, he refused full penetration. "The spell requires buildup," he lied, eyes gleaming with mischief and desire.
By the fifth night, Erin was a live wire. Her royal pride warred with desperate need. She cornered him on the bed, straddling his lap. "Enough games, sorcerer."
Their clothes vanished in a frenzy. She drank in the sight of him—lean muscle, dark hair trailing down to a thick, veined cock that curved upward, already leaking pearly fluid at the tip. The musky scent of his arousal made her mouth water. She wrapped her hand around his shaft, stroking the hot, velvet-smooth length. He groaned, hips bucking.
"On your back, my queen," he commanded, voice rough.
She obeyed, spreading her thighs. He settled between them, the blunt head of his cock nudging her dripping entrance. One slow push and he breached her—stretching, burning, filling. The sensation was exquisite: thick girth parting her slick walls, the drag of every vein against her sensitive flesh. She moaned long and low, nails raking his back.
He fucked her slow at first, savoring every inch. The wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out mingled with their ragged breaths and the slap of skin on skin. His balls tapped her ass with each thrust. Sweat slicked their bodies; she tasted salt when she licked his throat. The scent of sex hung heavy—her sweet arousal mixed with his darker musk.
"Harder," she demanded, heels digging into his ass.
He obliged, pounding deep. The head of his cock kissed her cervix with every stroke, pleasure bordering on pain. Her clit throbbed against his pubic bone. She clenched around him, milking his length.
Their second coupling was on the floor, her riding him reverse cowgirl. She watched his thick cock disappear into her glistening pussy, lips stretched obscenely around him. The sight alone nearly made her come. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her bounces. "Fuck, you're so tight—taking me so well."
She shattered first, walls rippling, a gush of wetness coating his balls. He followed soon after, but pulled out, painting her ass with hot ropes of cum. Not yet.
The final night arrived. Candles flickered—his "ritual" setup. Erin was naked, oiled, skin gleaming. Quinton's eyes devoured her as he shed his clothes. His cock stood proud, flushed dark, veins pulsing.
"On the bed. Legs wide."
She complied, heart hammering. He crawled over her, kissing a trail down her body—tongue flicking her nipples until they ached, teeth grazing her belly, then finally, finally, his mouth on her cunt. He licked her like a starving man, tongue fucking her hole, sucking her swollen clit. The wet sounds were obscene. She came twice on his face, thighs shaking, flooding his mouth with her cream.
Only then did he rise, cock glistening with her juices. He pushed inside in one smooth thrust, bottoming out. They both groaned.
This time there was no holding back. He fucked her with deep, punishing strokes—hard, fast, relentless. The bed creaked. Her tits bounced with every impact. The slap of his hips against her ass filled the room. Sweat dripped from his chest onto her breasts. She could smell them both—raw, animal, perfect.
"Fill me," she gasped, legs locked around him. "Give me everything."
His rhythm faltered. "Erin—fuck—"
His cock swelled impossibly thicker. Then he came—long, powerful pulses that flooded her womb with hot, thick cum. Jet after jet, so much it leaked out around his shaft, creamy white mixing with her own slickness. The sensation pushed her over the edge again: the heat, the fullness, the wet squelch as he kept thrusting through his orgasm.
Magic exploded.
Golden light erupted from their joined bodies. The air hummed. A portal shimmered into existence above the bed—swirling shadows and familiar obsidian spires. Her power rushed back, singing in her veins.
Quinton stared, stunned. "It… worked?"
Erin laughed, breathless, still clenching around his spent cock. "Not your lies, fool. This." She pulled him down for a fierce kiss. "True connection. Take me home, my con man. And never stop filling me like that."
They stepped through together, his cum still dripping down her thighs. In the Shadowlands, the wicked queen claimed her throne once more—with her slick, devoted sorcerer consort at her side. Their nights became legendary: slow burns of ritual and tease exploding into hours of explicit, sensory-drenched ecstasy. Kinkily ever after, indeed.