“Oh, my Lord,” she gasps, her fingers brushing through my hair.
“Call me Verr,” I growl.
“Yes, Verr,” she groans, heavy breasts heaving as I tug her garment down. The pillars of her exquisitely shaped thighs frame a dark red patch, glistening with her need. I caress her with trembling fingers, as if touching paradise. She sucks in a sharp gasp of air and lets it out as a shuddering moan.
My cock hardens to the point it is almost painful, thrusting against my silken trousers. I yank them down and out of the way. My crown is adorned with a pearlescent drop of moisture. My hand grips her toned thigh and I lift her leg, parting the dark hair and revealing the pink softness of her human pussy.
The smell alone almost makes me cum. She arches her back, easing my entry. Her slick walls spasm and quiver like a captured rabbit as I invade her inch by inch. She’s ready for me, so ready.
The first thrust is slow, adroit, yet powered by a basic drive so primal it links our two disparate peoples together. Her mouth flies open, her arms cling to me as her lifted leg hugs me tighter. I lean into the thrust, straining not to let myself release yet. I have taken many women before, but it’s never been like this. Never. Never so raw and real.
Never so perfect.
Our bodies move in unison, seeking the perfect synchronicity of which so many speak, yet so few find. I let out a guttural groan, pleasure emanating from my cock to the rest of my body. My brain feels embalmed in golden light. For a moment I wonder if this is what it feels like to touch the divine.
She grinds into me, her cries growing louder. Suddenly, I fear discovery. Not that I am ashamed of what we do--but because I fear what might happen to her if anyone, especially m y father, learns how much she means to me.
My hand clasps over her mouth, stifling her cries. When she instinctively grabs my wrist I clutch her hand and shove it to the wall above her head. Her cries are more guttural, softer but not fully silenced. I feel her hot exhalations on my skin as I pump my hips, burying my cock into her sweet folds.
Her body convulses like a woman possessed, a scream pealing from her throat but stopped largely by my hand. I gasp as I empty my seed inside of her, relief flooding through me as I experience a new kind of ecstasy.
I let my hand fall from her face. She pants heavily, eyes glossy and half lidded, but looking at me…looking at me in a way I’ve never experienced before. The moment is almost as perfect as the climax itself. Perhaps more so--
A voice cuts through the din.
“Lord Verginyon?” cries a servant. “Your father seeks your presence.”
The garden rushes back in around us—the sound of water, the scent of soil, the faint movement of fronds and petals in the wind.
She doesn’t speak.
“I…”
I don’t know what to say. What can I say? Even the greatest elfin poet would strive for the right words. Perhaps the right words don’t exist.
“I…must go,” I gasp at last.
Then I turn from her and walk away, buckling my belt, afraid to turn around and see that look in her eyes again.
It would break me.
15
LYRIA
Istand in the garden, pants around my knees, back still up against the cool stone as I watch him retreat. My mind reels even as my body rejoices. It was far from the romantic visions conjured up by minstrils…but it was somehow better than any fantasy could ever be.
I look down at myself and notice my state. I hike the trousers up and realize I can’t close them--he tore the laces. I have to retreat to my tiny quarters while holding them up with one hand. Thankfully no one accosts me with some random task on the way.
Once I am in the relative safety of my quarters, a giddy laugh escapes my throat. It bubbles up out of nowhere like a freshwater spring.
Then I recover my senses. My duties for the day are not done. I replace my torn garment and return to the garden, sore in all the right ways. That was…that was intense.
Which means I have to try and put it from my mind. If anyone guesses what just happened, we are both in terrible danger.
I do my best to return to my work in the garden as if nothing has happened. I soon discover a problem. The soil gives before it should.
It crumbles too easily beneath my fingers, dry grit sliding into the creases of my skin instead of clinging there. It should hold—dark and damp and alive—but instead it breaks apart like ash, like something already half-dead.
