Every nerve ending in my body was screaming to be against hers, so I couldn’t believe I had somehow managed to get her dressed. The arousal was intense—hard as stone, the ache nearly unbearable—yet still, restraint held firm, desire burning beneath the surface without action. My breathing was easy now, somehowhealedby her touch, which only made me want to explore every inch of her, a much more intimate kind of exercise.
Putting those flimsy panties on her without slipping my fingers between her legs, feeling the heat I knew was rising there….Christ.
I could smell her scent, musky and wild, making me want to drop to my knees and kiss her, taste her right there, but I held on and somehow kept my resolve. I forced myself to fasten her bra without letting my fingers linger on her nipples, fighting the urge to pinch them playfully, just to see her expression shift, to watch that pleasure bloom in her eyes. I also resisted the overwhelming need to honor her body with kisses and learnevery curve with my hands.Fuck, how I didn’t come right there in my pants, I have no goddamn idea.
I was so hard I had to just stand there for a minute, staring at her fully dressed, waiting for the throbbing in my groin to ease enough so I could actually walk without looking like a complete fool.
But then the thought hit me, sharp and unwelcome, as I looked at her standing there, so beautiful and out of place.What happens when she goes back to the river?Because I sure as hell could never follow her there.
My rational mind felt like it was fraying, unraveling thread by thread. I knew, with a certainty that scared me, that the more time I spent with her, the more likelysomethingwas going to happen. I had to stay strong, clamp down on this tension coiling low in my gut, tightening with every shared glance.
Just help her.That’s the mission. Help her figure out whatever mess she’s in, and then she can go back to where she belongs, back to the river.
First, though, I needed to figure outhowthe hellI was supposed to help her.
My hand trembled slightly as I led Luzia to the front room. The morning light streamed through the windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and highlighting the faint flush that still lingered on her cheeks.
The memory of her nakedness, the way the sheet had slipped from her grasp, and the feel of her skin against mine sent a wave of heat through me, a warmth that settled low in my belly. I swallowed hard, trying to focus on the task at hand—getting her to open up, to tell me who she really was. Only then would I be able to help her.
My mother, ever perceptive, had already set out a platter of fruit on the small wooden table on the veranda. Slices of papaya, mango, guava, and a few slices of pineapple were arranged in avibrant, colorful display. She gave me a knowing look, a subtle lift of her eyebrow that spoke volumes, before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving us alone.
Luzia hesitated at the table, her gaze flitting over the unfamiliar fruits. I could sense her apprehension, the way she held herself, tense and wary, as if expecting a trap. It made my chest ache. I wanted to reassure her, to tell her she was safe, but the words felt inadequate, clumsy.
Instead, I picked up a slice of mango, the ripe, juicy flesh a deep, golden orange. “It’s good,” I said, taking a large bite. The sweetness burst on my tongue, a welcome distraction from the nervous energy thrumming through me. “Try it.”
She watched me, her eyes narrowed as if assessing the potential dangers of the fruit. Then, slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against a slice of papaya.
The vibrant orange flesh seemed to glow against her pale skin. She brought it to her lips, taking a small, tentative bite. Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise, then a small smile played on her lips. “Sweet,” she murmured, the word barely audible.
Relief washed over me. It was a small victory, this shared moment of simple pleasure, a fragile bridge across the gulf that separated us. I sat down beside her, picking up a piece of guava, its pale green skin giving way to a soft, pink interior.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite, the initial apprehension replaced by quiet enjoyment. It struck me how graceful she was, even in the simple act of eating. Her movements were fluid, almost otherworldly. I watched her, captivated, the questions swirling in my mind, a restless tide I couldn’t contain any longer.
“So…” I began, my voice a little rough, “… tell me about your sister. You said she was unwell?”
She froze, the papaya halfway to her lips. Her eyes, wide and luminous, met mine, a flicker of fear in their depths. I held her gaze, my heart pounding in my chest.
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the vibrant green. “She’s… she’s very sick. That’s why I’m here.”
“On land?” I asked, confused. Her eyes widened with surprise, the vibrant green shimmering with a mixture of fear and something else.Hope?
“But… it’s dangerous for your kind, isn’t it?” I asked, wanting to make sense of why she was out of the water.
“It is. But I had to come. There’s a flower… a special flower that blooms only under the full moon. It has healing properties. I need to find it for her.”
“What kind of flower?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, the scent of ripe mango and papaya hanging heavily in the air between us.
Luzia’s gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers tracing the delicate veins on a papaya leaf. A shadow, fleeting yet profound, crossed her features.
“TheFlor da Lua,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s the only hope for her.”
My hand went to my neck, my fingers brushing against theSeolaishanging there. Its wood was smooth and foreign against my skin, a constant, physical reminder of the impossible reality I had stumbled into. Its presence felt like a responsibility, a weight.
“This,” I said, my voice low and intense, my gaze fixed on her. “It’s important. Isn’t it?”
Her eyes locked onto the pendant. For a split second, her carefully constructed composure crumbled, revealing a look of profound longing and raw vulnerability that struck me harder than any physical blow. It was the look of someone seeing a piece of their very soul resting in the hands of a stranger.
“It belongs to my people,” she finally admitted, her voice barely a whisper, lost in the stillness of the morning.
