When my palms scrape over his dark nipples and they contract into tiny buds, he shudders. “I hope you’ll still think this way when we give birth to a winged Serpent or a scaled Crow.”
Laughter suddenly spills from his mouth. It’s such a sultry, foreign sound that it momentarily distracts me from my exploration. When he grows serious, I instantly miss his carefree joy.
“I love you, Zendaya of Shabbe, no matter what happens next. No matter if our bodies knot, or if my seed takes.”
“Why wouldn’t it take? We’re not that different biologically, are we?”
“No.” He shrugs one of the huge, rounded shoulders my nails are now cresting. “But I’ve seen my fair share of couples struggle with having children over the years.”
“We’ve already done it once.”
He rolls his lips, probably to stop himself from reminding me that I was a different person then. Before he can say this out loud, before old-Daya can encroach on this moment, I slant my mouth over his.
She’s no longer here;Iam. My kiss softens his body. Well, his face. The rest of him has grown as hard as stone. His beard chafes my chin and cheeks as he deepens the kiss, reaching his tongue into every dark corner of my mouth. He’s wild and unbridled, a surging current muscling everything out of its path to reach my heart and my soul.
I don’t even realize that I’ve started rattling until I feel his lips quirk into a pleased grin. He pulls away. I start to protest, but my objection morphs into quivering breaths, because he’s kissing his way down my neck, his fingers working the braided straps of my gown off my shoulders which he peppers with kisses next.
I don’t think I can rattle any harder, but manifestly, I’m wrong, for when he leans over to tongue my bared nipples, my body all but blurs from how hard I shake. I suddenly worry it will put him off and hunt what I can see of his face. His eyes lock with mine as he continues to lavish my hardened peaks, his big hands gripping my waist to keep me flush with his mouth.
He doesn’t look disgusted. Keeping one palm on his bare shoulder for balance, I thread my fingers through his black locks and tug gently. He moans and the tremor that passes between his teeth increases the headiness of his ministration.
His hands wander toward the bow that holds my wrap dress closed. One tug and the silver silk splits open. He leans back, drawing the shimmering folds wider and wider, until they drape from my elbows and expose my front. As he contemplates my nakedness, he inhales deeply, then exhales even deeper.
His fingers, that are as callused as mine will surely become from bloodcasting, skip over my pebbling flesh, sketching my paler scars and my heaving breasts, before capering along the runnel of my ribs toward the silken triangle that is as soft as it is sheer. Instead of rolling it off me, he crouches lower and knuckles it, his breathing growing so abundant that his exhalations feel like caresses.
I keep stroking his hair. Watching him watch me stirs my blood, making it swirl more briskly through my veins.
“Just as fucking perfect as I remember,” he rasps, his knuckle curving lower and lower, filling me with foreign sensations that are wreaking havoc on my pulse. “Has anyone explored this body?”
I moan when he hits a particularly sensitive and wonderful spot. “No.”
My body, which had gone still, suddenly begins to rattle against his crooked finger, and holy Mahananda… I grip his hair as fire streaks through my veins and ignites me.
I gasp out his name, then pant, “What wasthat?”
“Haven’tyouexplored your body?”
“No,” I croak, as moisture and heat pool low, bleeding into the silk between my thighs.
“Why the Cauldron not?”
“Lack of time.” I nip my lip, then release it. “Lack of guidance.”
For some reason, my answer makes him rise, his palms shaping the outside of my body before returning to my waist and perching there.
“Had I known there was such a pleasurable spot, I would’ve taken the time to ask for guidance.” I smile.
He doesn’t. “Then I’m glad you didn’t know.”
I roll my eyes. “I would’ve asked Asha or Taytah, not Enzo or Abrax.”
His lips still don’t bend.
I push on tiptoe and steal a kiss. As I settle back on my heels, I ask, “Oh, jealous one, will you please see to my sexual education?”
Thatchips at the unyielding line of his mouth. “It’d be my pleasure to bring you pleasure, Sumaca.”
He scoops me into his arms, coaxing an amused startle from my mouth, and carries me to the velvet seating. As he lays me out, my dress, which is still hooked to my elbows, settles beneath me like starlit foam.
