For Lyra, I will be brave.
She moans against my mouth, her pussy sucking at my cock, trying to milk out the seed I’ve been saving up for her. But I grit my teeth and hold myself back.
I want to get her off first. Always.
So I shift my weight onto one elbow, and without breaking our kiss or ceasing my deliciously slow thrusting, I reach down between our sweat-slick bodies to find her swollen clit. When I touch it, she gasps, her body jerking beneath mine. Now she’s the one to break the kiss, arching her back and tipping her head on the pillow, eyes closed and brows pulled together.
Her body radiates heat as I stroke and rub her, filling her with my cock all the while. She drops her legs from where they were wrapped around my back, letting her knees fall open, like she’s experiencing such pleasure that she can’t even hold her muscles firm anymore.
Good. This is the kind of pleasure I want to heap on her. I want her so lost in ecstasy that she can scarcely remember her own name.
Like the afternoon I pleasured her on the rug before the fire, a magical shimmer of red and orange dances across her skin, and I smile.
Her pussy flutters around me, squeezing so tight I almost lose hold of myself, needing to grit my teeth harder and count backward from ten to keep myself from dumping my load inside her. I move my fingers slower now, touching her clit with a featherlight touch, drawing her pleasure out one brush of my fingertips at a time.
Lyra catches her breath, her whole body going taut.
And I watch her face as she cums around me. Her body trembles as her walls pulsate around my cock, sucking on it. She gets so wet I can fuck her with ease now. And before her orgasm can reach its peak, I shift atop her again, using one arm to lift her hips off the bed, angling her so I can slide as deep as she’ll take me.
Still, I watch her. With each thrust and each slap of my balls against her ass, I study her face, the way her lips are open with a moan, the thrumming of the veins along either side of her neck. Her fingers are tangled in my blankets now, messy red curls draped across my cotton pillowcase.
Then she opens her eyes.
And the moment she meets my gaze, I’m done for. I can’t hold back any longer.
I pull my cock out of her, and with a bellow I try and fail to contain, I dump everything I have onto her beautiful naked body. My cum spews in ropes from my tip, painting her as she pants beneath me, eyes wide as I tug my shaft, draining every drop I’ve saved up for her over these many days we’ve been away from each other.
And when I’m done, she’s covered in sweat and cum, and so are my blankets. Which means I’ll have to do the laundry today. But first...
I lean over Lyra again, capturing her lips, kissing them softly, relishing the taste. Then I kiss her cheeks, her forehead, each eyelid. “You,” I whisper as I nuzzle my face into the side of her neck, “are pure magic, Lyra Wilder.”
She laughs, though the sound is tired, drained of energy. I can tell she’s completely spent.
So I ease myself off of her and the bed, then scoop her into my arms, cradling her body against mine. She wraps one arm around my neck, her eyes flicking up to meet my gaze.
“Where are we going?” she whispers.
“I’m going to give you a bath,” I say, already moving around the foot of the bed and crossing the room toward the washroom. “Then I’m going to feed you. And then we can do whatever you want.”
Her eyes flash with a hint of mischief. “So... we can dothatagain?”
I rumble out a laugh. “Anything but that. You’ll need time to heal.”
She pouts but doesn’t argue.
With that, I carry my little fire witch into the washroom, where I intend to wash and kiss and worship every inch of her skin.
And I know in my heart that I will do everything in my power not to ever let Lyra Wilder go again.
Chapter 46
Lyra
I STAY WITH CAIRN FOR the rest of the Yuletide holiday, helping him pack up everything he owns into wooden boxes and big, solid trunks—which I have no hope in the world of being able to move, heavy as they are. At night, he makes us meals that put even the castle chefs to shame: chunky potato soup with crunchy rustic bread, vegetable stew with carrots he sends me to the garden to fetch from his cold frames, fire-baked butternut squash, and, of course, my favorite: vanilla-dandelion lattes.
“I like him,” Juniper says to me the evening before Cairn leaves for the Columbine Conservatory. He’s sitting in his armchair, a book about fungi (yes,fungi) propped open in his lap. But he fell asleep half an hour ago and has been breathing deeply ever since, head tipped back, eyes softly closed, chest rising and falling rhythmically. I’m sitting cross-legged on a blanket in front of the fire, practicing my elemental magic—letting flames flicker across my palm,then calling on a fine mist to douse them before sending a warm breeze dancing through the small sitting room.
This coming semester, I want to do better. I want to show my professors how important my education is to me, and I want Headmistress Moonhart to see how hard I’m trying and how much I appreciate her giving me the chance to fix the mistakes I’ve made. I don’t just want to pass my classes—I want to excel at them, like Poppy.
