He moves then, swallowing my gasps and whimpers, rocking his hips with increasing fervor.
The zareth flares with every thrust, bright threads weaving tighter, binding us to each other, to the tree, to the humming roots below.
His hands skim my sides, the bed of grass and earth we lay on seems to move, accommodating us as he rears up and locks eyes on my heaving chest.
“Gods, your body was made for this. For me. Feel that, Oona? Feel how your sweet slit is trying to suck me inside? Like it wants me to stay right here, buried deep inside you.”
“Yes, feels so good, Dagan.”
And it does. I feel him everywhere.
In the building ache between my thighs, in the heat blooming under my skin, in the pulse that keeps time with the subtle tremors traveling up through the stone.
He leans in, braces one hand by my head, fingers buried in the grass. The other roams—my hip, my ribs, my breast, my throat, like he can’t decide what part of me he needs to worship more.
“Look at me,” he rasps when my head tips back.
I force my eyes open.
Green-gold meet mine.
And something inside me just clicks.
This isn’t just a body moving over mine.
This is the Lord of Earth’s walls coming down.
Stone and storm peeling back to show me the man underneath—lonely, furious, loyal to a fault, and looking at me like I’m the one thing he ever truly wanted and never thought he’d have.
My chest aches.
I lift a hand to his face, thumb brushing the scar along his jaw.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper.
His pace stutters.
“Oona,” he says, voice breaking on my name. “You do not know what that means.”
“I think I do,” I say, because I feel it—the way the Marches have ridden him like a burden for years, and how the weight shifts, just slightly, when I say the words.
“You’re not alone anymore, Dagan. Not in this. Not in anything. Let go. I’ve got you.”
I feel his answer in his body before I hear it in his voice.
He rolls his hips harder, deeper, and the pleasure spikes white-hot, stealing my breath.
The world narrows to the grind of his body against mine, the flex of his shoulders, the rhythm we find together.
Heat coils low and tight, building with every thrust.
The elder tree shivers, blossoms raining down faster, scattering over our tangled limbs. The glow intensifies, the sap veins gleaming like molten gold.
The zareth burns.
He grunts. Tossing his beautiful head back as his body starts to move in jerky, unpracticed motions. My pussy clenches, tightening as wave after wave of pleasure sneak up and hit me like a hundred tiny earthquakes before the big one strikes—and it’s so close.
“Oh Dagan! I can feel you,” I gasp, nails digging into his back. “The bond—Dagan, it’s?—”
