So Goldie did what she always did when discomfort tried to back her into a corner. She took action.
With a wicked little hum, she slid her hands down his back and grabbed his ass. Hard.
“Fertilizer,” she whispered against his lips, her grin sharp enough to cut through the ritual.
Goldie felt Splice’s whole body stutter. The ceremonial veneer cracked. The glow in his eyes flickered and dimmed. He blinked, looking down at her with a strange, human sort of bewilderment, like a spell had just unraveled in his hands.
She leaned up, lips grazing his ear like a secret. “Forget ritual,” she murmured, her voice low and thick with heat. Her fingers curled into his collar, yanking him down until their mouths were a breath apart.
“Let’s fuck.”
A startled look crossed his face. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Goldie took his hand and tugged him from the kitchen. Every step across the floor sounded like punctuation, every sway of her hips a command. He followed, almost dazed, vines retracting in shivers along his arms as though unsure if they were still invited.
She drew him into the living room, pushed him down onto the couch, and straddled him in a single, fluid motion. Her weight pressed him deeper into the cushions. Her hips rolled once, slow and purposeful, and she felt the unmistakable, hard shape of him through the barrier of their clothes.
She grinned, slow and wicked. “Well,” she murmured, shifting just enough to make him twitch, “looks like your roots are paying attention.”
She leaned in and kissed him. Her tongue teased against his, swallowing the little sound he made until even his breath belonged to her.
“Lay back,” she murmured against his jaw, her mouth trailing heat like a brand along his skin. “Let me enjoy you.”
Her fingers worked his shirt open, button by button, until the fabric slid apart and bared the strange, not-quite-human beauty of him. His torso was sculpted in clean lines, skin marked withfaint striations like polished grain, the seams of his joints flexing too fluidly to be mortal.
Heat radiated from him, earthy and alive, and she bent down, her mouth sealing over the hollow beneath his collarbone.
His breath hitched. His hands fluttered at his sides, then dropped again. “Green gods,” he whispered, voice raw, eyes wide and blown. “Goldie, I… I don’t understand this. I don’t know… I don’t know what to do.”
The words froze her for half a heartbeat.Shit. I don’t want to steamroll him. Don’t want to be rapey with the hot plant man.
She sat back and cupped his face in both hands. “Hey,” she said softly, grounding the moment with her voice. “It’s okay. Just tell me if you need me to stop. I’ll stop. I promise.”
His chest rose in a shudder. For a heartbeat he looked carved from stone, every line of him taut with uncertainty. Then, slowly, he leaned into her touch. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.
“I want…” His throat worked around the word, rough and trembling. “Just… not the way I know.”
Relief loosened her lungs. She let out a laugh, small and breathless, pressing her forehead to his. “Perfect,” she murmured, brushing her lips over his. “Because the way you know sounds boring as hell.”
His startled huff turned into a shaky smile, and his hands rose to settle at her hips. The tentative weight of them there made her pulse kick.
“See?” she teased, rolling her hips just enough to make his breath catch. “You’re already learning.”
Her palms glided down the ridged lines of his torso, tracing the grain-like striations. He was trembling. She kissed him again. His mouth was surprisingly soft, pliant and warm. He gasped into her lips, and his hands moved: one sliding up tocradle the back of her head, the other settling, shy but urgent, against the small of her back.
When she teased his lips apart and slipped her tongue between them, he let out a low moan that made her clit throb. Wetness bloomed between her thighs and her nipples tightened to sharp peaks beneath her shirt, rasping against the thin lace of her bra.
His fingers tangled fully in her hair now, no longer hesitant, pulling her closer like he couldn’t stand the distance between them. His tongue met hers with sudden precision, sliding, twisting, learning her. Fierce now, he tasted her like he was committing her to memory, each flick and stroke cataloguing her.
His hand drifted from her hair, fingers shifting slowly down the side of her neck and trailing along the curve of her throat. They lingered just a moment, then moved lower, sliding under her bra and cupping her breast with aching care.
“Fuck,” Goldie breathed, hips jerking hard against him.
His thumb flicked over her nipple, gentle at first, then firmer. Stars burst behind her eyes. Pleasure arrowed through her, sharp and quivering, and she arched into him, groaning, fingers clutching his shoulders as her body begged for more.
“Make that sound again,” he murmured. The words were shaky, as if he didn’t know they’d slipped free until he heard them himself.
Slender vines unfurled from his skin, soft and cool at first, hesitant like they were scenting her. They slithered around her body, beneath her shirt, curling over her spine. One slid higher, sneaking under her bra and curving like a second palm around her breast, spiraling around her nipple and giving it the lightest, most devastating tug.
A broken moan tore from her throat, shameless and loud, her legs clamping tighter around his hips. He froze for a heartbeat,startled by the sound, and then his whole body shuddered. His hand and vine worked her in tandem, rolling, plucking, tugging until every pulse of sensation shot straight down to where she was soaked and aching.
