The tightness in his face eases, and his hands loosen, skimming up my arms, across my shoulders, down my back. “The oasis gifted me a reprieve, but we will not have long. What about pregnancy? Is there… that is, you’re not taking anything to protect against it, are you?”
“I took a vow of celibacy, Zephyrus. There was never a need to protect against it.”
He nods in acknowledgment. “Here.” Growing from his open palm, a small shoot spreads its leaves. “Chewing on these leaves will prevent pregnancy. You might feel a bit nauseated tomorrow, but the effects will wear off in a few days.”
The leaves taste bitter, but I dutifully swallow them. I appreciate Zephyrus’ foresight.
His expression softens as he takes me in, and my cheeks flame. “I am remembering that kiss in the glade,” he whispers.
A flutter stirs my heart, for I, too, recall the hushed darkness, how distant I felt in that moment, completely removed from reality. Some bold, entirely fearless part of me dares to ask, “What do you remember about it?”
Reaching out, he presses a fingertip to the pliant center of my lower lip. “I remember your smell. I remember the small, breathless sounds you made. I remember the shape of your body in my hands. But mostly,” he says, low with yearning, “I remember you left me wanting. I have been wanting ever since.”
Clasping my jaw, Zephyrus coaxes my mouth to part, his lips capturing mine. Together, we sink. Peace in drowning.
His breath is elixir. The air is but particles between us, our faces so near I can count the pores on his nose, the silver striations in the dark green irises. Our noses brush, and my eyelids sink closed as the heat of his tongue plunges past my teeth.
I gasp, hands clamping his shoulders, spearing upward into his silken curls. So many textures await exploration. The edge of his jaw, coarse with facial hair. The delicate shell of one ear. The smooth skin of his neck. I touch them all with unabashed curiosity.
“I love your freckles,” he murmurs. “Like small grains of sand.” Then his mouth returns to mine, and he eats at me hungrily. My lips move with equal fervor.
I push to my knees. The West Wind grunts and hauls me closer, the gold sand beneath the trees scattering like a thousand flaming stars. The kiss does not break; it only deepens. I am unraveling. Consumed. Body and mind reshape themselves, for I am pious, yet desired. A novitiate, yet still a woman. What do I wish? To climb beneath his skin. To tuck my heart alongside his. To know, truly know, that I am loved—mind, body, soul.
As the sun begins to set, the warm tones give way to cooling hues, and still we are kissing, reaching, tangling into one being. His fingers twist in my snarling hair, tightening near the scalp, and a moan breaks free.
After two failed attempts, I clumsily manage to straddle him. Something long and stiff juts into my inner thigh, and I whimper.
Zephyrus breaks the kiss, panting. His eyes flicker, pupils like dark pools within.
“I adore you like this,” he whispers. “With your legs spread and your weight on my lap.”
The gravel in his voice intensifies the flush in my face. “You are pleased?”
Gripping my waist, he shifts me back and forth across his erection. My breath catches as the pressure begins to sharpen. “Do you not feel this?” He grinds upward, and the delicious friction sends a hot pulse through my legs.
“I do,” I stammer. Strands of damp hair stick to his temples, his skin warmed by the sinking sun. “Can I touch you?”
The question slips out with all the awkwardness of inexperience. I want to know what Zephyrus feels like in my hand, but it is difficult navigating a road untraveled.
Down his hands slide, stroking the tops of my thighs. “Brielle.” Bright, glancing heat marks the curve of my neck—a swipe of his ravenous tongue. “I would love nothing more than for you to explore my body.”
“What if I do something wrong?”
“Darling.” The slow spread of his smile is my undoing. “You can do nothing wrong as long as you are touching me.” His palms coast around my waist, up to the heavy curves of my breasts. The dress is so torn the neckline hangs in strips, exposing the generous flesh of my cleavage, which twitches with each shortened breath.
With some effort, I manage to detach myself, sliding free of his lap onto the sand. His stiffened groin pushes against the cotton of his trousers.
He widens his legs suggestively, and my throat tightens, desire and shame warring within me. In the violet-edged dusk, I am bold. Reaching out, I clasp my hand around his length through the fabric of his trousers.
The West Wind expels a deep, shuddering groan. He studies my efforts through slitted eyes. “How does it feel?”
I laugh nervously. “Strange.” Neither hard nor soft, it pulses as I run my thumb beneath the lip of the head, tracing its fleshy rim through the cotton. I give it an experimental squeeze.
He curses, and I snatch my hand away, cheeks hot. “Did I hurt you?”
“On the contrary, it felt too good.” He grits his teeth, one hand clamped around his bent knee. “Here.” He angles my hand, places it over his bulge. “Try again.”
As my fingers clasp his thickness, he guides me in a steady rhythm, his larger hand enveloping mine. Tucked inside his trousers, his length pulses against my palm, then hardens, the wide head oozing dampness into the fabric.
