“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur, looking up at her from my position between her legs. The golden light casts shadows across her skin, highlighting the curve of her hips and the tousled angle of her dark hair. She’s a vision, a goddess in the glow of the sacred tree.
“Are you ready?” I ask, my voice thick with desire. She nods, her eyes dark with need.
“Yes, Thorn,” she breathes.
Her breath stutters as I kiss my way up her inner thighs, and she twitches when my lips find the softness of her folds. The taste of her pussy floods my senses, earthy and sweet, and I growl with pleasure, pressing closer, deeper. My tongue dances over her clit, teasing and licking her opening, and her hands move to my head, gripping me tightly as she rocks against my face. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, and her moans echo through the grove, blending with the rustle of leaves and the hum of the earth’s magic.
I make love to her with my mouth until she shatters, crying out as she arches off the ground. Her body trembles in the aftermath, and I can feel her pulse fluttering under my lips as she comes back to herself. Climbing back up to cradle her in my arms, I hold her close, pressing soft kisses along the curve of her neck.
“Thorn…” she says again, her voice soft and breathy, her eyes filled with surprise and satisfaction. She reaches for me, her fingers tangling in mine, and pulls me closer. The tender desire shining in her eyes is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and it ignites a fire deep within me.
She squirms against me, her hands sliding across my chest. Her soft gasp as her fingers brush over me is enough to make my cock twitch, already hard and aching for her.
Her touch is hesitant at first, but as I moan into her ear, she gains confidence. Her hand glides up and down my length, gently at first, then with increasing pressure. I’m lost in the sensation, in the feel of her fingers on my skin, until she gives a tentative pump, flicking her wrist with a little twist at the top. My hips jerk forward, and her hand wraps tighter around me, matching the ebb and flow of my hips with her own rhythm.
“Ah, Clara, you feel so good,” I murmur, and she leans in, drawing me into another desperate kiss. I can taste my own arousal on her lips, and it only fuels my desire as she pulls back,her eyes dark with need. She shuffles backward, leaning against the rough bark of the tree, spreading her legs to make room for me between them.
The sight of her like this, open and wanting, is almost enough to undo me. I reach between her legs, pushing gently on the inside of her thighs, and she spreads wider, her body trembling in the warm night air. I take a moment to drink in the sight of her, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, the way her nipples harden in the cool night air, and the way her pussy glistens with need. There’s a soft sheen of sweat on her skin, and the golden light of the sacred tree dances over her, casting her in an ethereal glow.
“Thorn, please,” she begs, and that’s all it takes to send a jolt of electricity through me, destroying any remaining shreds of self-control.
I move closer, positioning myself at her entrance, and push forward gently. Her wet heat envelops me, and I groan, my head falling back as I feel myself sinking into her, inch by tortuously deliberate inch.
As I sink into her, we're both overcome by the sensation, a delicious, heady mix of pleasure and need. She gasps, her fingernails digging into my shoulders, and I have to tighten my grip on her hips to keep from losing it right there.
With our bodies entwined, we move together, finding a rhythm that works for both of us. Each thrust is a statement, a declaration of how much we need this, need each other. The grove hums around us, as if the very trees are singing songs of love and desire.
Clara’s eyes are half-lidded, her lips slightly parted, and the sight of her awash in the magic of the tree makes me want to worship at the altar of her body. I bend to take one of her nipples into my mouth, sucking gently as I thrust into her, and she moans, grinding against me, seeking more.
We move together, our bodies slick with sweat, our moans and gasps music to each other’s ears. I pull her close, burying my face in the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent of flowers and earth. She squirms, her legs wrapping around my waist as I drive into her, taking her harder, deeper, lost in the rhythm, in the feel of her. Her nails scratch my back, and I groan, praising her, loving how she meets me thrust for thrust.
She buries her face in my shoulder, her voice soft and broken as she whispers my name, "Thorn," over and over, a mantra, a prayer, a beacon tethering me to this moment. The universe might be vast and ancient, but it shrinks to the space between our hearts, and all it contains is the thrum of our bodies, the pulsing earth, and our syncopated breaths.
Her legs tighten around me, and I can feel her building toward release again. Her eyes darken, her gasping breaths coming faster, and she clutches at me, urging me deeper still.
I double my efforts, my fingers digging into her hips so hard it must hurt, pressing into her deeper, harder, until I can feel her clench around me, crying out, and I'm not far behind.
"Come with me," she moans, and it's all I need to shatter, exploding inside her in a rush of ecstasy, my own release following fast and hot on her heels. My hips jerk against hers, our bodies twisting and straining, the pleasure so intense that, for a moment, I'm drowning in it, lost to everything but her.
We cling to each other as we come, both of us trembling, gasping, the sacred tree above us pulsing with magical light, bathing us in a glow that seems to bless our union. Our hearts pound in tandem, and I feel as if my essence is entwining with hers and with the earth itself, with the magic of the grove, in a way I never thought possible.
As we come down from our high, still entwined, our bodies work in tandem, a well-practiced dance. She clings to me, her short dark hair wild around her face, her skin flushed withpleasure. She has never looked so beautiful, so real, and in this moment, she’s mine.
CHAPTER 23
CLARA
Iused to think soil was just dirt.
A backdrop.
A place where thingshappened.
But now I know better.
Soil is a story. It's memory. It's where grief breaks down and makes room for green things to bloom.
Which is why I’m standing in front of two dozen students this morning, my voice shaking like a leaf, holding a stick I don’t know how to use as a pointer and pretending not to panic.
