He kissed me again, and this time there was no hesitation. His hands learned the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, and I did the same—mapping the planes of his chest, the ridges of his muscles, the places where his marks pulsed under my touch.
“The vines,” I murmured against his mouth. “They’re moving.”
He glanced to the side, then smiled—an expression I’d rarely seen, and it transformed his face. “Pleasure vines. They respond to desire.”
Even as he said it, the vines were weaving themselves into a structure behind us—supportive, responsive, creating something like a nest.
“That’s convenient.”
“That’s intentional. This garden was designed for exactly this.” His hands were working at the laces of my pants now. “The rebels who founded the Thornwood knew that pleasure was as much a part of life as duty. That joy could be revolutionary.”
“Revolutionary fucking. I like it.”
He laughed—actually laughed—and the sound went straight through me. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
“I do.” He kissed me again, slower now, thorough. “Root and Bloom, I do.”
My clothes disappeared in stages, his following, until we were skin to skinin the golden light. The vines had created a bower around us, supporting but not confining, adjusting to our movements like living furniture.
“Elle,” he said, his voice dropping to that register that made everything inside me clench. “I need you to understand something.”
“What?”
“I’ve lived hundreds of years, and I have never—” He pressed his forehead to mine, breathing hard. “I have never felt like this. Never wanted someone the way I want you. It’s not the bond, it’s not the prophecy, it’s not anything except you.”
I pulled back to look at him, saw the vulnerability there, the fear under the want. “Then have me. I’m yours.”
The vines adjusted as he lay me down, creating a nest that was impossibly comfortable. The mushrooms growing nearby began to glow brighter, responding to our arousal, casting everything in soft blue-green light.
“Wait,” I said, remembering. “The mushrooms—Peeble said something about them once. During one of their more educational rants.”
“What about them?”
I reached for one of the glowing caps, carefully broke off a small piece. It left luminescent residue on my fingers. “Body paint.”
His eyes darkened. “Show me.”
I traced glowing patterns across his chest, following the natural lines of his marks, watching how the light made them stand out even more. He shuddered under my touch, his hands clenching in the moss beneath us.
“Your turn,” he said, taking a piece of mushroom for himself.
His hands were careful, almost reverent, as he painted patterns on my skin—constellations, spirals, runes in languages I didn’t know. Every stroke left tingling warmth in its wake.
“You know what the best part is?” I asked, breathless.
“What?”
“You get to lick it off.”
His control snapped.
His mouth traced the glowing trails he’d painted, and the mushroom was sweet on my skin—earthy and bright, with an effervescent qualitythat made every nerve ending sing. He took his time, learning what made me gasp, what made me arch into his touch.
“My turn,” I said, flipping us over when I couldn’t take it anymore, pushing him back into this makeshift bed.
I painted him with deliberate care—patterns down his chest, following the ridges of muscle. God, he was beautiful. Not in a soft way, but like something carved from marble. His abdomen was a study in controlled power, each muscle defined, the kind of physique that came from centuries of training and fighting. He looked like an Adonis—if Adonis had been forged in darkness and marked with corruption.
