Her shiver is a draft, her aroused sigh a gust. I burrow my face into her hair, inhaling the scent of coffee and foggy mornings. Her favorite things, each fragrance infused into her curves, emitting an incense that hardens me to the brink of pain.
Fables forbid, this won’t be easy. Holding out never is.
She has no idea how many times I’ve wanted to grab her in the past, before our kiss under the Horizon. How many times I’ve thirsted for her mouth, wanting to swallow her sarcasm whole and taste her defiance on my tongue. How many encounters in which my pelvis tightened in her proximity. How many times I envisioned sweeping her off the ground, taking her against the nearest solid surface, and dragging out the climax until she fainted from pleasure.
I sense Lark smiling as she sways her backside into my prick, the teasing motion pulling a hiss from my parched tongue. “You’ll pay dearly for that.”
“Not if you can’t catch me.”
A thrill eddies through my wings. “Oh, but I’ve already done that.”
“Yeah, except I know my way around this mountain now.”
“Is that a fact?”
Lark pauses for effect, then swings and ducks around me. My mouth wreathes as I wheel slowly and prowl across the grass while she retreats backward, a reckless endeavor on this promontory. Our feet swish over the green, torch flames illuminating the swan-white of her figure, the swells and tapers of her nudity on display. I once resented those infuriating distractions, loathed them, suffered the insult of them, even as they destroyed me little by little.
Yet I digress, which won’t do. Not when my quills detect the makings of a game.
We pause in a shaft of moonlight, enabling me to scent her excitement. It’s a human aroma, rich of earth and blood and fortitude.
A moment later, she spins and flees, sprinting across the lawn to the wildlife park, her unshod toes kicking through the underbrush.
I launch off the ground, my wings snatching a pocket of air and vaulting ahead. This craving hasn’t gone away—the chase, the pursuit and play of it. She dashes into the thicket, cutting a path through the moonflower trellis and hopping from one level to the next. The fauna pay her little heed, because she’s now one of them.
Tímien and the fauna who raised me, Moth who has become my sister, and Lark who has become everything. This is my family.
Puck and Elixir are my brothers, my brethren. They matter to me, but it’s become exceedingly more complicated and shall require a great deal of conniving to change that. I wish I could say otherwise.
My wings span the air. I dive between the trees, my plumes skimming the leaves and snuffing one of the torches. I veer east, then west, biding my time, relishing the cadence of her exhalations, this newest excuse to watch her.
What’s more, there’s no rush. Her destination is clear.
Pearlescent beams dapple the gazebo, tails of ivy lacing the framework. My prey races toward the structure’s womb, but shortly before she reaches the threshold, I plunge. Diving behind her, I belt my arm around her waist and hoist her against me without breaking my speed.
She chirps, her feet leaving the ground as I pitch us into the sky. We soar across the range, my torso flush with her spine, her tremulous laughter swinging through the wind—and I see it, the breeze ensnaring the sound and carrying it over the mountain.
I hold her close and say, “Spread your arms.”
Elation ripples through her body, the sensation unfurling into my quills. Lark does as I bid and extends her arms, aligning them with my wings, the wind surging beneath us. She gasps in delight, realizing that she’s flying.
I relish that small noise, audible only to me. How I crave more of it.
“Now, then,” I croon. “Tell me where to go.”
She nods. “Higher.”
Amusing indeed, and very much like her. I obey, arcing us into the celestials and devouring the sounds of her joyous whoops.
Direct me. Command me. Show me where you’d go. Let my wings be your own.
If I may, Lark adjusts rather well to ordering me around. She shouts, and we steer around The Wild Peak. She squeals, and we plummet into a vertical dive, shooting toward the valley.
Near The Parliament of Owls, Tímien and the winged raptors momentarily join the voyage, creating a funnel that spirals around us.
At Lark’s behest, we chase the eastern terrain, then streak west through ropes of foliage. Under the moon, she flies us over every precipice that has led to now, to this moment. I pitch us through a cloud, splitting it and sprinkling mist onto our naked flesh. Her breasts pump savagely, but she nestles in, trusting my grip.
I could do this for eternity, or at least, for the next hour. Hence, I revel in this tour, meeting her desires as the sun peeks over the horizon.
