She has not had enough

They stayed joined in the aftermath, both breathing hard. Winston’s pulse still hammered. Inside her he had begun to soften, yet Hippolyta made no move to rise. She only watched him, flushed and bright-eyed, the diadem still fixed in her damp hair.

A moment later she rolled her hips once, testing. He twitched. She did it again, slower, and felt him thicken inside her under the deliberate motion. Satisfaction crossed her face.

“Again,” she stated, low and certain. “I am not finished with you, my lord husband.”

She took the lead as before. This time the pace ran deeper. Heavier.

Each slow rise dragged the swollen, sensitive ridges of her inner walls along the hot, aching length of him, drawing a ragged groan from deep in his throat. She sank back down, seating herself fully, and he gasped, his fingers digging bruisingly into the flare of her hips. He didn't retreat; he held her there, anchoring her as she began a slow, hypnotic rotation of her pelvis.

Slowly, agonizingly, the languid weight within her began to stir, swelling and lengthening until he was thick and heavy again, filling her completely. She leaned forward, her wet mouth claiming his in a desperate, open kiss. Saliva slicked between their lips as she devoured him, her tongue exploring with the same enthusiasm her hips displayed below. While their mouths were locked in a carnal dance, her body continued its relentless, rhythmic grinding, her walls rippling and clamping down in a tight, milking grip that refused to let him go, pulling him back inside with every undulation.

A second, brutal wave of ecstasy crashed over him so suddenly it nearly shattered his control. His spine arched violently, locking his body into a rigid bow against hers, and a raw, animalistic cry tore from his chest. She seized it instantly, her lips crushing against his to swallow the sound, her fingers digging into his scalp.

Hippolyta held Wintson pinned against the tent floor as she drove her hips downward one last time, grinding her pelvis flush against his in a final, suffocating seal. He couldn't hold back against the tide, his body convulsing as he emptied himself in thick, heavy jets deep inside her. She remained locked to him, her inner walls rippling and contracting rhythmically to milk every spasm, holding him captive in the heat of her depths until he was completely drained.

Hauling him upright, she lifted Wintson the canvas floor entirely, guiding him the scant distance to the low, straw-stuffed pallet. He moved like a marionette with cut strings, his legs betraying every step with a tremor that echoed the exhaustion deep in his hips. When Hippolyta pressed him down on top of him, the cot groaned beneath them. She mounted him, knees bracketing his torso, and her palm guided his length back into the slick, swollen folds. The friction against the sensitive crown stole the last of his air.

She sank down in a single, consuming motion. A ragged gasp tore from her throat as the tight heat swallowed him whole. When her weight settled, anchoring him to the bed, a guttural moan vibrated between their chests. She began to move, slow and deliberate circles that ground her pelvis against his. Each rotation pressed her clitoris directly against him, sending fresh tremors through a member that was still fighting to regain its strength.

Then the rhythm broke. She rose, dragging her walls up along his shaft until he threatened to slip free, then slammed down with a grinding roll that seated him to the root. A shared cry tore from their lips. Sweat beaded and trickled down her heaving chest, glistening against the pale skin of her stomach. Her thighs trembled with the effort to maintain control, though her hips betrayed her desire. She escalated the pace in increments: a harder impact, a vice-like clench. A soft whimper escaped her as she buried her face in her wrist, her body arching under the assault of a particularly deep thrust.

Winston’s grip on her waist tightened until his knuckles turned white, his strength spent. The third release was a reflex, a sudden, violent spasm that wracked his frame. It was pathetic compared to the first two—a dry, mechanical twitch that barely managed to drip a final, useless offering into her depths, milked relentlessly by the inner muscles that refused to let him go.

That heat pushed her over with him.

Her back arched hard. A sharp cry tore from her throat as her cunt fluttered and seized, clamping down in trembling waves that milked the last of what he had. She kept him buried through all of it, grinding through every tremor until the tension finally left her muscles and she slumped forward over his chest.

They stayed joined while the shaking eased. Her breath warmed his skin in slowing pulls. When she lifted off, his cock slipped free and a slow run of seed followed the inside of her thigh. One glance was all she gave it before she stretched out along the pallet and pulled him in.

An arm slid under his shoulders. The other settled across his back. She drew him flush against the damp heat of her body until his cheek rested on her breast, and her own cheek found the place above his heart. Fingers moved once through his hair, then stilled.

“You have given me a great deal, my lord husband,” she stated. The words came quiet, roughened by everything she had taken from him. “Rest. I will be here when you wake.”

Winston made no answer. He lay in the circle of her arms with the scent of her skin in every breath and the deep, pleasant ache in his body standing in for any thought he might have formed. For the moment that was the whole of it.