Faeries and Crows cannot reproduce. You know this, right?
I do. But what does that have to do with my aptitude to speak Crow?
What if transferring you into a Faerie womb smothered your Crow side?
It sounds like he hasn’t come up with this just now. It sounds as though he’s given this much thought. If he’s right, then that would mean . . . that would mean I’ll never be able to shift. I’ll never be able to fly.
It’s just a theory, Little Bird. For all we know, I could be wrong.
Perhaps, but what if he’s right? What if—
You’ll have to use my wings for the rest of your life.His shadows glide down my neck, chasing the droplets of water cascading from my hair.I could think of many worse outcomes.
He’s right. I know this. Yet disappointment balloons behind my ribs at the idea that I will never be able to grow wings and spring into the sky.
I could be wrong,he repeats, his ethereal mouth brushing across mine before settling and pressing until my lips part for him, until his kiss drives my body backward, until my spine bumps into the rim of his giant tub.
His shadows shift into hands and grip my knees, tugging them apart, spreading me.Give me your eyes, Behach Éan. And don’t look away.
I do as he says, and as I stare, his shadows coalesce and color, his outline firms until he becomes a man made of flesh and ink who kneels between my spread thighs. I drink my fill of the exquisite face looking down at me, trace the sharp edge of his unflawed nose and the brutal flare of his jaw, devour the unspoiled sweep of his lashes and soft bow of his mouth.
I recall him telling me that the Glacin Princess had described him as bestial, but there’s nothing brutish about this man. Every centimeter of him is magnificent, honed and sensual, the finest work of art ever crafted.
I’m glad to know you’re satisfied with your lot,he murmurs as his fingers rove languidly over my collarbone toward the jagged points of my shoulders
My lot.I snort at his euphemism, but then lose my train of thought as he caresses the swells of my breasts, first with his gaze, and then with his fingertips, I lift my hands from the water and hover them over the wide brim of his shoulders, afraid he’ll pop like a soap bubble if I apply any pressure.
I won’t, for I’m inside your mind, Fallon.He cups one of my breasts, his long fingers caging the soft flesh, then reaches up with the other to capture my wrists, which he drags lower.
When my fingers connect with his flesh, he looses a placated sigh, as though I’ve somehow relieved him of some great soreness. Another deep sigh travels through his broad chest when I perch my hand on his other shoulder and clasp it.
I’ve ached for your touch, Behach Éan.He returns his hand to my bare breast and gently begins to knead it while his other palm roams down my rib cage, the roughened pads of his fingers scraping against my stomach.For your smell.As he runs his nose along the side of my neck, tilting it to accommodate his mouth, his fingertips dip into my belly button, and although it’s not a true button, I shudder as though he’s flicked something on inside of me.For your taste.His tongue sweeps across the seam of my lips, coaxing them farther apart, seeking entry.
When his mouth covers mine, a moan slips out of me and into him. Gods, how I’ve longed for him too. With every cell of my body, every fiber of my being, every beat of the organ thundering against my sternum.
My heart swells and swells, sidling against my ribs to get as near the hand my mate has pressed to my breast as possible. My nipple hardens even though it’s every millimeter of skin around it to which he caters.
My breathing becomes spotty, halting entirely when he slides his fingers through my wet curls. Though he has me pressed against the smooth stone of his tub and I’ve no chance of tumbling, I clamp my hands down, digging each phalanx into his steam-slickened skin.
How wondrous mind-walking. If only my mind could’ve vaulted out of my obsidian walls whilst my body stayed imprisoned. It would’ve added so much color to my drab days.
Lore growls into my mouth. Because my mind returned to that place he could not penetrate or because his fingers have reached a slit theycanpenetrate? He parts my sex with two fingers, then drives his middle finger down the path he’s cleared. When he skims my nub, I suck in a breath so sharp it stabs my lungs, then expel a muted whimper which he licks off my mouth.
As his finger ventures lower, grazing more slick, pulsating skin, I snap out of the spell he’s put me under and grip his neck, then skim my other hand down the quilt of aggressive muscles silvered with scars. I circle his nipples until they harden into minuscule points as jagged as the craggy peaks of his mountain, then drag my knuckles down the runnel of his ribs, feeling the ardent clench of his muscles and the fierce bangs of his heart.
When my hand finally meets its mark and wraps around his silken girth, he rips his mouth from mine and claps both his hands around the edge of the tub with a snarled, “Behach Éan.”
His face contorts with such exquisite pleasure that I don’t regret the sudden absence of his hand. Through half-lidded eyes, he watches as I drag my hand from his root to his tip, squeezing his bulging veins that swell with more and more desire.
As I pump his length, I sit up to press a kiss to the stubbled edge of his jaw before sliding my lips down his corded neck and licking the bladed apple in his throat. He rasps my name, then rasps my nickname. The sound of his barely-contained pleasure goads me to clasp him a little tighter and quicken my movement.
He shakes and shudders, rattling like a pleased serpent. Exhilarated that I’m touching him in a way that pleases him, I give him a hard squeeze, but instead of flesh, my fingers close over nothing.
And my lips . . . my lips fall through air.
“Lore?” I murmur. “Where did you go?”
Focà. I’m here, mo khrà.He swears again.Here.
