“The magical power in their veins drove most of them mad, many harmed themselves, and a couple fell victim to other Hunters.”
“Do you mean Cyrell?” she asks, paling. So, the high elf has enlightened her about what our friend from the tunnels is and his experiments with human blood. Or she has guessed it herself.
“We would never do something that barbaric to you, Celeste,” I reassure her, leaning on the cool stone. While I fully mean it, I don’t know what options we have, as all of Diaphonus’ research has not provided a solution yet. And time is precious. How long will the shifters´ armies of Verdant hold? The mighty wards etched in the centennial oaks of the Northern Forest failed, and the magic-devouring demons swarmed the sacred lands. My king, striding proudly in the form of a golden-furred mountain lion, led the knights to the tormented woodlands. I cannot fail. I cannot betray their trust.
Days pass, and all the priest’s books, magic, our speculations, and lengthy debates have not brought any progress. The hope to save Faëheim without harming Celeste fades with each passing day, while the tension between us three becomes nearly palpable.
We distract ourselves at the pool to avoid the chilling recognition that we have no solution, that the majestic, deadly power locked in that tempting fragile body cannot be harnessed without destroying it.
Time is running short, and I notice Diaphonus getting impatient. I wonder if he is up to something.
We spend the morning swimming, and our frolicking in the water is so pure, so full of innocent joy, that I almost forget how hopeless the situation is.
Funny how fate has ways to change the course and sink the proudest, sturdiest ships.
I feel the heavy tentacles of the storm long before it appears, and yet I am too absorbed in our game with Celeste to warn her.
“If you come to Verdant when this is all over, I am afraid I’ll have to compete with the king himself and all the knights of the court for your attention!” Mesmerized, I watch her freckles drown in a wave of scarlet when she blushes. I notice how her gaze brushes my inked stomach muscles, tempered by ages of swordplay and rigorous training. We are at our fourth margarita, and I feel my length painfully straining against my shorts. The idea of pouncing on her, pinning her tender body beneath mine, and capturing her lips suddenly seems completely sane. The beast beneath my skin craves release.
The rain saves me—the heavy drops surprisingly cool, and before we can seek shelter, it catches us in its gray net.
Anticipation tingles my spine. The change in the weather just a harbinger of other, far more lethal changes.
Celeste – The Anchor
T he strands of my long hair are thoroughly soaked, and I’m sure my lips turn a funny shade of blue.
“We need to warm you up, Celeste. Follow me,” Tarcyll declares, his eyes lingering on my pebbled nipples, which push against my bikini. I part my lips to object, but the chattering of my teeth says it all. He reaches out and wraps a fluffy towel around my shoulders. His scent and proximity hit me like the most potent shot I’ve ever had, the brush of his fingers over my bare shoulders, the heat of the massive bulge between his legs, I try to look away, but my eyes are drawn to his aggressive erection as if tied to an invisible thread.
I feel a familiar twitch at the apex of my thighs, and without thinking, I squeeze them tight to create some friction. God, I can come only by looking at him.
His beautiful lips curl in a roguish smile that makes me blush ferociously. He is a spymaster in a Fae court, Diaphonus mentioned before, an expert manipulator, skilled in reading his foes. To him, I am but an open book. Let’s hope I’m an intriguing one.
“Do you know what a hammam is?” Tarcyll asks casually, his hands still on my shoulders, guiding me toward the house. His tattooed skin glistens, the hieroglyphs and creatures on his skin buzzing with power. His massive sapphire ring brushes my cheek. For some twisted reason, the memory of Jasmin’s pussy devouring his finger all the way to the ring pops up. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“No,” I squeak.
“It is a Turkish steam bath, perfect for warming up and relaxing. It is exactly what you need now,” he rasps and licks his lips. He looks at me hungrily, his eyes darting between my lips and my breasts. The fact that he’s not even trying to conceal his desire is so arousing that all my reason and sanity remain outside in the rain. Dear Lord.
I nod and let him guide me, pondering if I’m under a spell or tricked in some eerie Fae way. Power seeps through his fingers as they wrap around mine, yet I know he would not risk exposing our hideaway with magic. Whatever is about to happen, I have only my own stupidity to blame.
We cross the green marble foyer and descend the stairs leading down into the depths of this palace. Thick aromatic candles burn in niches along the walls, and incense smokes in bronze vessels on the polished, black, granite floor. It looks like this place has its own spa.
Tarcyll releases my hand. We have arrived. He pushes a massive glass door and disappears in the thick aromatic steam that fills the room. I follow, filling my lungs with the soothingly warm air. Water murmurs in the steam-filled depths.
A few hesitant steps in, and the warmth relaxes me completely. My head is spinning—perhaps all the margaritas combined with the sudden heat make me dizzy. I head to the stone benches lined along the walls. The colorful mosaic stones are all drenched from the steam. There’s no sign of my companion, though the vapors are so thick that I can barely see my own hands. I stretch out on the bench, soaking up the blissful humidity, and let the towel slip from my shoulders.
My nipples are still hard, and I feel my center dripping wet, the juices of my arousal leaking onto the warm marble surface. I can’t stop thinking of Jasmin’s pink flesh clenching around Tarcyll’s finger as he was penetrating her, the heaving of her bare breasts, begging him to grope them. He was teasing her entrance with his massive ring—that must have felt amazing—and my face flushes even more as I brush my hands over my straining nipples. The way he was looking at me when he was fingerfucking my friend, his eyes full of hunger and dark promises.
Without consulting my brain, my fingers travel down to my slit, and I slightly spread my legs. Pulling my thong aside, I create full access to my twitching folds. I bite my lips and slowly circle my clit, then my fingers trail down, disappearing in my aching opening. A fragment of my mind wonders if Tarcyll is still around and if he can see me. Then I realize that I want him to see me. I close my eyes, imagining him watching me, pleasing himself, his tattooed muscles straining in the effort, sweat beading on his high brow, his handsome face distorted by the urge of his need, his massive dick salivating.
My fingers are frenetic as I defile myself feverishly, legs shamelessly spread, my middle finger knuckle deep in my pussy.
All my life, I was in control. Compensating for an irresponsible alcoholic mother, I guess. Shedding this false sense of control over my fate and future now feels liberating. Trembling in the waves of the orgasm, I celebrate my new-found freedom by doing something preposterous and utterly stupid. I let go of control and the pressure it brought into my life.
And I smile.
My therapist would be so proud.
