And Zan keeps touching me.
I come back to myself still gasping, twitching at the somehow heightened sensation, and he asks, “Do you need me to slow down? After an orgasm sometimes the feeling can be too much—”
Do I want him toslow down?! Is he insane???
“Zan,I am a sage,” I tell him with all the feeling I can muster—which is quite a lot. “I can never feel too much.”
“Oh, is that so?” Zan says.
And while I’m still shaking with the aftershocks, he puts one finger inside of me.
My inner muscles clench around him.
I stare again down at where his hand disappears, my breath coming fast with the new sensations—that Icanprocess fullybecauseI’m a sage, and it’s so much, enchanting and utterly riveting and at once transporting, feeding the same part of me that using my power feeds.
Instinctually my legs fall open, seeking more of him.
Zan obliges me by adding a second finger, and Imoan.
Gods, I didn’t even know I could make a sound like that.
But I also didn’t know that I couldfeelsomething likethis.
His fingers slide in and out of me, and I flex my hips as if I can take more of him. I can practically feel Zan’s masculine smugness behind me and even I can’t be mad because hedeservesto feel smug—
And then his fingers crook inside me, pressing against a spot on my inner walls and my hips rear up of their own accord.
“What—!”
“Hmm?” Zan purrs teasingly into my ear, and I shudder around him just from the sound—combined with his fingers—and then he adds, “Oh, do you mean this?”
He strokes the same spot again.
I grab frantically onto his legs, widening my legs even further—
But Zan goes back to just—just, how is this now just!!—stroking in and out of me, and it’s not enough anymore; just enough to keep me on the edge, twisting for more.
“Tell me what you want, Yora,” Zan says in a low voice.
My anger does spark now, because he knowsgodsdamned wellwhat I want—
But I also told him to tell me what he needed.
And maybe this is for him.
Maybe this is also about whatheneeds.
Not just to know that he can pleasure me. But to know that I am as desperate for him as he claims he is for me.
I twist in his hold so I can look at him, his eyes so dark and wild despite how restrained his touch is, and I want nothing more than for him to unleash it.
I fist my hand in his hair, using him, always, as my anchor.
“I wantyou, Zan,” I tell him fiercely. “I want you deep inside every part of me, to feel you in mycore, to touch parts of me I didn’t even know were there—”
Zan crashes his mouth to mine, likehecan’t stand to hear any more. This kiss is almost vicious with its intensity, and I love it—
And that’s before his fingers thrust into me again, and with me twisted like this the angle is different, deeper, and I whimper against his mouth, unable to hold in the pleasure.
