Page 50 of Touch

His countenance dares her to respond in a certain way. Naturally, Andrew would never imply she’s incapable of learning something new. He argues and interrogates, but he does not belittle. However, this mortal is also correct about Love’s inexperience with such activities, and the notion of falling on her ass like a marionette severed of its strings is unappealing.

With regret, she runs her hand through his thigh, reminding them of their limits with each other. “It wouldn’t work.”

The mortal sucks in a breath, gazing at his leg for so long she wonders if he’d heard her. But then he rasps into the silence, “I want to touch you.”

16

Love’s heart sprints, although the rest of her body cannot move. He’d pronounced those five words as if they had been conceived under a velvet blanket. Soft, smooth, sensuous. She feels it like a caress, a slow drag of titillation beneath her dress, flesh aching and thighs clenching in a manner they never have before.

“We can’t,” she utters.

Andrew doesn’t care. “I want to touch you anyway—with more than a fucking pen. I want my fingers on every sensitive, sacred place you possess. I want that pleasure to reach each inch of skin and every drop of blood until your body is writhing down to the bone.” His gruff tone matches the half-mast of his eyes. “I want that privilege to be mine.”

The slit of her cunt pulsates, the delicate walls thrumming to life. Oh, Stars. Now she knows how such words feel. Hectic like a percussion, a strained pulsation that dampens her crease and firms her nipples into studs.

Based on what she’s read in his canon, this man has quite the erotic imagination. Yet wordsmith aside, Andrew speaks with the feverish confidence of experience. He has long since reached full maturity, so this should not come as a shock.

All the same, combativeness sharpens Love’s reply. “You’ve been fucked before.”

Andrew’s mouth twists in delight. “Is that a problem?”

The itch of envy increases. “Not at all.”

“Then it won’t matter to you if I say the relationships have never lasted. Women enjoy making use of my cock, but not all of them want a man who lives a solitary life. And while I’ve tried, I just haven’t clicked that way with someone in the long-term.”

The word “cock” on his tongue is a carnal thing, the noise probing between her walls, desire wetting Love’s palate as well as her pussy. Feral urges spread like a brushfire across her body. Although lust-driven, her lack of practice beyond making herself come reminds Love how little she identifies with her kind, to say nothing of her targets.

This has always been a fact. Yet it has never affected Love to this degree. Andrew’s declaration, combined with the fervent look he gives her, imbues Love with an unfamiliar power—vigorous, primitive, ecstatic. The liquid flowing through her veins accelerates, her pulse beats with the force of cannonball, and her soul lifts off the ground. The potency is so intense, it might bestow her the ability to relocate a cliff with her bare hands.

If the pressure in her cheeks hasn’t given Love away, the rise and fall of her breasts does. Andrew watches her body react, realizing his speech has achieved what his hands cannot.

He drapes his tongue across his lower lip. “If not Anger, then who?” A ravenous edge shapes his question. “Which deities have been given the luxury of touching you? Which ones do I need to restrain myself from?”

The notion of Andrew staking his claim on her should not be enticing. “No one,” she confides. “I’ve only ever pleasured myself.”

A gruff noise skids from his mouth. “I’ve pictured that too. There’s only one thing sexier than imagining your spread legs, your wet fingers buried to the knuckles, and a shout ripping from your open mouth.”

“What’s that?” she musters.

“The vision of you holding that longbow and aiming it at my chest, like you did on that first day,” he husks. “With your feisty mouth blowing frost in my face, you shredded me to pieces then and there, without so much as breaking skin. Every minute since, I’ve fantasized about that moment going differently, with me tearing open that dress, pinning you to the tree, and hauling you off the ground. The weapon would have tumbled from your shoulder, and your screams would have shaken the forest.”

Stars almighty. This man.

Andrew’s stare wraps around Love and holds fast. In tandem, her gaze clutches his, the irresistible pull like a magnet. Pictures flash through her mind, each more sensual than the last.

Her limbs strapped around his hips. Her claws in his hair, and her head thrown back. His pants slung low, his ass flexing with every sinuous beat of his cock, and his mouth swallowing her moans.

Andrew’s pupils double in size, his voice stroking her like a plume. “Has Love ever been loved?”

“No,” she confesses, though the word carries a bitter taste.

Sex and decadence, pounding hips and searching tongues—they prevail where she’s from. Deities indulge in lust; they fuck because it’s fun. Camaraderie and perhaps fondness accompany the rutting, but love is lost on her people. It’s a human necessity, not an immortal one. That’s why it has taken millennia to create her.

Andrew maintains eye contact. “I want my hands on you.”

Apparently, she has no self-control. “Where?”

“Wherever you command me to put them.”

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