I don’t sound exquisite. I sound like I’m falling.
He kisses me and picks up speed, cupping my bottom with his free hand and rocking me back and forth, jutting me against the fingers lodged within. I match his pace, gripping his shoulders and riding his hand, keening into his mouth.
Our foreheads meet. My insides clench, almost there, almost there. My inner walls tense around his fingers, gathering at the center—
“Yes, my Lark,” he urges. “Come slow and low.”
—until a rapturous blitz pitches me to the sky. I’m not falling, I’m soaring. I holler, shattering in his arms while he swallows my cries.
I sink back to earth and deflate against him, panting into his shoulder. He smooths out my hair and pecks my lips, his breathing frayed. We’re a shambles, our clothes in disarray.
And we haven’t even started yet.
Still spasming, I wiggle closer, rubbing myself against his prick. In response, Cerulean digs his fingers into my rear and utters, “I’m not stopping.”
“Good.” I lean in, flick my tongue along his mouth, and mumble, “Fuck me instead.”
His irises transform to a vivid shade of blue. He withdraws from under my gown and slips his glistening fingers into his mouth while studying my reaction. The act of him tasting my climax sends a fresh bolt of desire through me.
My bodice is next. One by one, he breaks the clasps, splitting to reveal a valley of pebbled skin. I straighten, enabling my tits to widen the gap, then wait for him to do the rest.
Cerulean frees the bodice, my breasts pouring into the firelight, into his line of vision. My nipples pucker, rising into dark pink crusts. They level, waiting for him, waiting for his mouth.
His pupils eclipse the irises as they take in the sight. He curses in Faeish, the string of words slanting upward at the ends. Hugging my lower back, he urges me to recline, my head tipping toward the shivering treetops.
And then a hot mouth wraps around my nipple. I give another cry, unleashing to the canopy as Cerulean sucks on me. Over and over, he tastes the disk of skin, licking and kissing. Then he shows mercy, his teeth grazing the opposite bud while I sputter his name, his name, his name.
“Minn ó Lark,”Cerulean pants into my breasts. He pulls back and jerks his head, knocking away the damp forelocks.
My intakes go shallow. “Take my clothes off.”
His lips coil into a grin. “A favor for a favor.”
Naturally. The gown trembles down my body, whispering over my curves and hollows. I let him run the material past my hips and ankles, the fringed skirt flapping, tickling me along the way. The fabric splashes to the ground, and then I’m naked, sprawled before him in the flames.
My thigh cuff glints, the only object I’m wearing. My breasts hang heavy and needy, sweat builds behind my knees, and my soles grind into the boulder. I brace myself on my elbows and inch my thighs apart, exposing the slit where he touched me.
His stare roots deep. None of my lovers have ever looked at me this way.
Like I’m rare. Like I’m irreplaceable.
I don’t need him to tell me that. I know what I’m worth, yet my soul warms.
The wind lashes at his clothes. Too many clothes.
The shirt exposes a bounty of skin. I straighten, flatten my palms on his chest, and scale the grid of abs. I map out the solid planes before coming to rest on his heart, the organ ramming against my hands, the pace accelerating.
From there, my hands loop over his shoulders, taking the coat with them. It floats to the grass. With anxious fingers, I grab the hem of his shirt and drag it over his head. Cerulean moves with me, his sinuous arms rising, displaying the iron scars trickling up his forearms.
He peels off his boots, tossing them aside. I react quickly because those low-slung trousers gotta go, my hands shaking as I hustle them down. Again, he helps, stripping the trousers the rest of the way.
I’m lucky I don’t swallow my tongue. He’s beautiful. His wiry muscles contract over the toned cliff of his body, easy to strap myself around. Aside from a few sprigs of dark hair—under his arms, along his limbs, and at his center—Cerulean’s made of marble.
Sloping hips frame his length. It pitches high, flushed at the apex.
I can’t decide what I crave first. To wrap my mouth around that thickness or feel it pumping into me. I’ll be damned if I can make up my mind, so I choose neither.
Instead, I scoot to the edge. Our centers brush, both of us grunting softly from the contact. I swerve and attach my lips to his throat. Cerulean’s fingers capture my hips, the nails biting as I lave his skin with my tongue. My kisses travel from his neck to his collarbones, then to his nipples twitching between my teeth. I sample his torso, where the feather dangles from his hair.
