I rock against him, lifting and sinking in a rhythm that makes my legs quiver. His fingers work circles where we’re joined while his mouth claims my breast, sending twin sparks of pleasure through me. I ride him faster, chasing the second orgasm that’s already building inside me.
“That’s it,” he breathes, fingers digging into my hips. “You’re so perfect. Taking all of me like you were made for this.”
I dig my nails into his shoulders, dragging them deliberately across the sensitive ridge where feather meets flesh. His entire body goes rigid beneath me, a guttural sound tearing from his throat—half growl, half desperate plea—as his wings flare wide, knocking into the walls.
His fingers dig into my hips, and with a growl, he lifts me off him. The sudden emptiness makes me gasp. For a moment, Idon’t know what he’s doing, then he stands and drops me back on the bed.
“Get on your hands and knees.”
I fall forward on my palms, and his big hands span my back, rubbing the length of my spine and lingering between my wings.
He pushes me forward and I eagerly bend until my face is pressing into the mattress, my ass in the air.
He runs his hands down my back again, this time caressing the curve of my ass, just before I feel him pushing at my entrance again.
There’s absolutely no pain this time when he fills me, and I moan at the incredible fullness.
His hips snap against mine, each thrust driving me deeper into the mattress. My vision shatters into white-hot stars as waves of pleasure crash through me, my body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. With a guttural groan, he suddenly withdraws—the loss immediate and jarring—followed by the hot splash of his release painting a warm stripe across my lower back, his breath coming in ragged gasps above me.
I face plant into his bed, exhausted, trying to catch my breath. I’m exhausted, aching, and soaked, yet utterly content. I want to lay here turning into jelly.
My eyelids droop, but the cooling wetness on my back reminds me I can’t just collapse here. I push myself upright, muscles trembling with the effort, sheets peeling away from my sweat-dampened skin. When I finally manage to lift my head, I find Fox’s ice-blue gaze fixed on me from where he leans against the bedpost, muscled arms crossed over his bare chest, wings folded tight against his back.
I have no idea what to say to him because that was the best sex of my life, but it was also entirely unexpected.
“That was good,” I comment lightly.
He just looks at me and nods. I wait, expecting him to say something, but he doesn’t
Alright, so I guess he only talks when he’s inside me, which doesn’t do anything to make this feel less awkward. We don’t really know each other well. I suppose we could work on that, assuming he’d want to do this again.
I bend down to retrieve my torn nightgown from the floor. Without thinking, I let magic flow through my fingertips—a shimmer of power that mends the ripped cloth and settles it back onto my body in one fluid motion.
Then, for good measure, I use magic to fix the destroyed room, repairing the nightstand that I broke and the smashed potion bottle—the potion itself is beyond saving, but I can at least reuse the bottle. When everything is back in its place, I turn back to Fox. He’s still watching me, and his expression isn’t sleepy or satisfied anymore. He’s staring at the repaired dresser like it personally offended him.
I remember suddenly that he hates magic, and something that feels an awful lot like disappointment settles in my stomach.
Magic is basically who and what I am, and if that bothers him this isn’t going to work.
I reach for the doorknob, fingers hesitating for just a heartbeat. “Well.” The word hangs between us. My throat tightens as I glance back at his rigid posture, his eyes still fixed on the repaired dresser. I straighten my shoulders and pull the door open, stepping through without looking back again. “Goodnight.”
After that night with Fox, I promised myself that it would never happen again…until it did.
A month later, I’m back, knocking on his door again. This time, the door swings open almost immediately. Fox stands there, barefoot, shirt half-unbuttoned, and hair damp. His eyes widen and the muscle in his jaw ticks as he grips the doorframe.
“Hello—” I begin awkwardly. “Sorry it’s so late, but see, I had a question about training earlier, and?—”
Before I can even finish explaining my thin excuse for being here, his fingers close around my wrist and he pulls me inside. In one swift motion, I’m hoisted against the wall, my legs wrapping around his waist as Fox’s lips trace a hungry path down my neck.
The third time I go to his room, Fox is far less surprised to see me; and not at all surprised the time after that. By the end of autumn, we’ve fallen into something like a routine.
I don’t visit Fox’s room every night, or even every week, but a few times a month—usually when I’m especially overwhelmed by a spell or potion I can’t master—I knock on his door and let him fuck me until I’m literally crying with pleasure.
We’ve never agreed to anything, or even spoken about our arrangement outside of the darkness of his bedroom. Still, overtime, some unspoken rules have begun to develop:
Just like the first time we were together, we never kiss.
We’re not in a relationship, and we never discuss what we’re doing with each other or anyone else.
