My mouth parts in surprise. “You reached completion?”
The West Wind snorts. “No, though I admit I’m close.” The strokes are firmer, long and unbroken, root to crown and back. His hips twitch, rising to meet my touch.
Mother Mabel never educated us on sex. I was forced to acquire any pertinent information from books or town gossip, so my understanding is rudimentary at best. It is pleasurable. It hurts. It is messy. It is brief. It is prolonged. It is uneventful. It is life-altering. I wonder which is true.
“That’s good,” he breathes, head falling forward. He watches my hand work him over.
I, Brielle of Thornbrook, will bring the West Wind to his brink. It does not seem entirely real.
Up my fingers skate, circling the head, squeezing in curiosity, and the wet spot enlarges, a spreading blemish in the fabric. I continue to pleasure Zephyrus until he removes my hand.
“Lean back,” he coaxes.
I follow his guidance, nestling into the cooling sand while he hovers over me. One hand drifts under my gown, tugging the hem suggestively. His burning gaze meets mine. “May I?”
The oasis drifts in the darkness of desertion. The South Wind has disappeared, and we are alone. I trust Zephyrus. I will not be afraid. “Yes.”
Carefully, his hands slip beneath the fabric, coasting up my calves, behind my knees, across the paler insides of my thighs. A gentle push widens my legs, and he kneels between them. The West Wind is faithless, I remind myself, but tonight, I might be his altar, my flesh and blood an offering, his head bowed as though in prayer.
Higher my dress creeps, gathered in folds around my waist. My feet dig into the sand, and I stare upward through the fronds of the trees swaying overhead, beyond which lie the Eternal Lands. Warmth gathers in my pelvis.
“I once asked if you had ever touched yourself,” Zephyrus murmurs. Long, deft fingers drift nearer to the apex of my thighs. “You did not give me an answer then.”
It was too embarrassing a thought. My own flesh, forbidden to me. Now? Legs bared and spread, my breasts so sensitized they ache against my corset, my heart racing beyond my control. This moment feels inevitable, as if it had been set in motion all those months before.
After my return from Under, I grew curious. My attempts at shuttering those licentious thoughts failed. I locked my bedroom door and explored my body. I touched my breasts, between my legs. Come morning, I knelt before the altar, head bent in repentance.
“I have,” I confess, breathy and low.
His gaze snaps to mine, stunned. The West Wind’s smile grows, a decidedly hungry thing. “How did it feel?”
It is too humiliating for words, so I mutter, “Fine,” and say nothing more.
“You already have an idea of what you like. We can work with that.” He massages shallow circles into my thighs. When his fingertips brush the edge of my chemise, I stiffen.
Zephyrus retreats as if nothing is amiss, moving back down my legs to my knees, calves, ankles. Eventually, he moves upward once more. A broken sound rises in me as he skims the top of my pubic bone. My core clenches reflexively.
Without looking at me, Zephyrus asks, “How did you touch yourself?”
The thought of him watching an incredibly private act… I do not know if I am brave enough for that.
“Close your eyes,” he croons. “Pretend you are alone in your room at the abbey.” He peels the skirt away from my legs. “I want to see how you pleasure yourself. I want to imagine my hands on your skin, the breathless sounds you’ll make.”
Settling deeper into the soft, whispering sand, I close my eyes. Dipping one hand beneath the hem of my chemise, I brush the top of my seam with two fingers, a bright, tender touch. I remember sliding my hand between my legs, evening veiled beyond the window, all those lightless pockets of Carterhaugh hidden until morning. I’d felt maddened, compelled, free.
As I did then, I slip my fingers between my thighs, lightly brushing the bud nestled below the thatch of mahogany hair. The sweetest agony darts through me, and I bite the inside of my cheek, hips lifting nearer to the touch.
Here is something I never told Zephyrus: when I first touched myself, I imagined his hands cupping my breasts, his muscled torso bent between my legs. Wetness trickles through my folds, which I catch and use to ease the passing of my fingers across my flesh. Slowly, I circle around my entrance. Pleasure gathers to a point.
A hand grabs my wrist, and my eyes fly open. Zephyrus kneels above me. His eyes glitter like cut gems.
“I have a confession,” he says.
My thighs clamp together, and I nod, licking salt from my lips.
“The thoughts I have about you are not meant for mortal ears.”
It is cruel, his beauty. I’m caught, dragged in by the enchantment that is the West Wind. “Tell me.”
