Every fleeting body.
Every night I mistook for meaning.
None of it compares to this woman kneeling between my legs, looking at my cock as if it holds the meaning of the world.
“Do you see something you like, Shula?”
She nods, licks her lips, and before I can enjoy this little exchange—she leans forward and takes me inside her hot little mouth.
“Fuck!” I shout.
My entire body arches, my thighs part wider making room for her, and I hiss as her tiny hands run up my legs to cup my balls and squeeze the base of my shaft.
She moans around my head, sucking on it, and I can’t stop watching her like this. She looks so good. Sexy, vibrant. My brave little spark. My Shula.
But I won’t finish like this.
“Enough. I want to taste you. Need you coming on my tongue before I finish inside your tight little slit, Shula,” I growl and reach for her.
She gasps as I pull her off my cock, but she makes no move to stop me. And no wonder. I can scent her arousal.
I know how needy she is for me.
I lay back and don’t stop pulling until my hands are fastened to the plump globes of her ass as I fit my tongue to her slit.
“Oh, God!” she cries out.
Her hands grab at my forearms, searching for purchase.
Her taste is tangy. Salty. Hot. Delia is—in a word—delicious.
She bucks against me, begging for a release I am only too anxious to give.
My powers dance along my skin, every fiber of my being intent on this—on her.
More than anything I want to bring pleasure to my viyella. To seal the vow we made in front of witnesses. To form a zareth bond with my Shula.
I know it’s fake. It’s scripted.
But I hope—that is, there is inside of me a spark of hope. And it burns and yearns for this, for us, to be real.
Delia’s back arches, her climax takes hold, flooding my senses, and I use my powers to flip us gently.
I continue to lap at her, licking every last drop of her pleasure until I’m sliding up her smooth, soft body and fitting my cock to her slick sex.
Fuck, she’s warm against me—real, breathing, heart racing so fast I can feel it through the thin barrier of willpower I must cling to.
But she fits against me with a terrifying kind of rightness, as if my body has been waiting centuries for this exact shape, this exact fire.
So what if I fall? A dark part of me whispers.
So what if I give in to a true zareth?
My bed silks whisper softly beneath us as I move us to the center of it, every movement deliberate, measured.
If I let instinct take over, I would overwhelm her in a heartbeat.
Fire does not know moderation. It knows only hunger.
