Elixir swats his hand through the air. The current latches onto the vessel and surges off, heading to my chamber, to my bed, and to my dreams, which have become infinitely more shameful. I sag in the transport, my lungs heaving and my head slumping forward.
Because it had taken a trip down that steep waterslide to get here, the boat cruises in the slope’s direction. The flux pulls me toward the incline, the transport bound to shear through the gush.
On the brink of ascending, I grip the rims on either side. Elixir’s right about this anarchy between us, because a truce is one thing; but what could have happened seconds ago is another offense entirely. We can form a treaty, continue to bond, but we can’t stray like we did in the lily pond. Never again can we get swept away like that. We’d be committing the worst of sins. It’s corrupt, forbidden, reprehensible, disgraceful, and selfish.
Except for one problem: I want to do it again.
Except for another problem: I change my mind, tear off my sandals, grab my spear, hasten to the boat’s prowl, and dive.
Right before the boat coasts up the slide, my body hits the tepid gulf. The current stalls. The vessel bobs in place like a cork, the eddies foaming around it. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere with the shoes or without me.
The boat can wait. I can’t.
I breaststroke through the depth, then lose patience and kick in short bursts of adrenaline. Despite the dress and spear hindering progress, the distance isn’t vast. The landing comes into view, but Elixir’s not there.
It couldn’t have been more a few minutes since I left this spot. I grasp the ledge and slog out of the water. Drenched and plastered in a film of fabric, I hustle along the passage while glancing in all directions, noting several arteries he could have taken, if he hasn’t evanesced altogether.
No, he hasn’t. I squint at the traces of water trickling down one of the thoroughfares where lanterns burn from recesses. My feet slap the floor as I cross through the conduit.
Around a bend, the area becomes achingly familiar. It turns out, this network connects to the special places I’ve already been, only from a different end of The Deep. I pad down the channel, following the drips of water and knowing where to turn, knowing where he’s taken refuge.
I push through the reeds and step into the lily pond. The pool glistens with its blue sheen, and the lilies blaze white, their vibrancy lighting the cave. On the opposite end of the pond, the waterfall sprouts from the overhang and creates a partition, separating me from the naked figure shielded behind it. Although the downpour isolates Elixir, it doesn’t blot out the sight of what he’s doing to himself.
With his back facing me, the Fae stands before the mossy facade, his shoulder blades drawn in tightly and the muscles of his backside flexing…pumping. He arches, his head flinging backward while additional threads of water leak from crevices and splatter down his arms. Like this, he braces a flat hand on the wall while the other hand is concealed, tucked in front of his pelvis. With strong, rhythmic motions, his right arm siphons up and down.
If the vision hadn’t made the location of Elixir’s hand clear, his groans do. The waterfall does its best to shroud the frenzied noises, but I hear them. They rent the air, the texture hoarse and tattered. He moans bitterly, wildly, desperately, each sound in tempo to the jutting motions of his arm.
My lungs constrict. I shouldn’t be watching this. I’m about to swerve and leave, but then I hear the most damning noise of all.
“Cove,” he grunts.
The word reaches my ears, harsh and quivering. I stall, frozen. My pulse smashes against my breasts, flames singe me beneath the sodden dress, and the lustful sound of my name on his lips probes the cleft between my legs.
He’s thinking about me. The lord of the water Fae is pleasuring himself to visions of me.
Is he remembering the last time we were here? How it had felt, how deeply he’d lunged into me, how wide my thighs had parted around his snapping waist? How soaked I was? How hard he’d been?
He wants that again, as much as I do. Isn’t that why I came here?
His clothes have been discarded at the water’s edge. Though drapes of water and mist plummet around him, he’s not fully doused, and he’s no more than ankle-deep in the spring, so his limbs haven’t shifted. Moisture coats Elixir’s smooth back. That long hair sweeps his hips, and his rear—that firm, wet ass—undulates toward his hand.
It’s a miracle I haven’t dropped the spear. I set my weapon on the grass and move forward, drawn to the scene, to the cadence of his body.
I halt beside the pond and stare openly. The sight of him is erotic, sensual, and savage.
However, it’s not enough. I don’t want to be limited to fantasy, reduced to fleeting images. I want his hand to be my hand. My flesh chafes so terribly, I long to peel this frock from my body and step into the torrent with him.
A whimper curls in my throat. And Elixir stops.
His body goes rigid, cutting short his moans. The sight of him caught and suddenly aware only increases my need. Yes, he had admitted he can’t detect my softer emotions, but he can still sense my desire.
I wait for him to face me, but he remains anchored, riveted to the spot. I’m near enough to glimpse the flush of his scales. I’ve seen this ruddy tinge before, when he was on top of me.
It’s not shyness. Rather, it’s from satisfaction unfulfilled.
The strong hand that had been strapped around his cock falls to the side. The other hand burrows into the foundation, about to break chunks of mossy stone.
He pants, his baritone heavy, winded, and plaintive. “Leave.”