Page 51 of Touch

“Assume you have options.”

“Your mouth. The first thing I’d want to do is shut you up with my fingers, run them across your lips, then down your neck,along every curve until you’re flustered, and your breathing has grown stunted. After that, the tips of your breasts. They’ll darken under my thumbs while sighs drop from your lips.” A low croon vacates his lungs. “My palms over your hips, spanning your ass, splaying your thighs. My touch would split you wide, graze and circle your clit, and tease your sweet cunt until it’s dripping and ready for—”

“For what?” she urges, stricken by her impatience.

Andrew skates his gaze across the hem of her dress. “For the rhythm of my fingers. I would slip them inside you to the hilt, then pump in and out at a lazy pace. I would coax every sob from your throat, make your soft pussy tense around my fingers, then spill down my hand while you convulse. I would find out how many different touches exist for you, tear each one from your lips, and worship the release on your face.”

The roots of Love’s teeth ache, and her fingernails burrow into the rug, the fibers of which catch the slickness pooling from her cunt. This is the most seductive conversation she’s ever had, for he’s found a way to touch her merely by opening his mouth.

And by Stars, she yearns to do the same, her attention dropping to the front of his jeans. Under the material, his cock has risen to a considerable height. In her mind, it’s thick and high, the broad head ruddy, with a slender line cutting across the tip.

If it were possible, her hands would learn how to make him groan: how much pressure to use, how hard to grasp, how leisurely to stroke, in which directions to sweep her fingers, and where to seize him in her fist. His cock would feel magnificent lifting into the grip of her fingers, beads of liquid spurting from the flared crown, and his grunts of pleasure echoing to the rhythmic jut of her wrist.

Such an achievement would inspire Love to use her teeth next, lightly skimming his sac, then grazing to the widepeak. She would drape her tongue, flatten it against him and lick slowly, then purse her lips and seal around his girth until he howled into the night. This mortal would taste divine, the delectable flavor of his cum melting on her tongue, the release spilling down her throat in a pleasurable stream.

Andrew would revel in her finishing him off. He’d savor the vision of her swallowing his climax, then flip Love onto her back. Like her, this man possesses an expansive imagination, so that he would find numerous ways to return the favor.

Rough. Ardent. Carnal. Sensual.

Andrew’s pupils dilate, as if he’s aware of her thoughts. On reflex, Love parts her lips, intending to voice those yearnings. Damnation, she should be vigilant, disciplined, impervious. From the second she’d met him, Love should have been lots of things. She’s supposed to be a warrior goddess, not a wanton traitor.

Yet the draw is unmistakable and downright intrinsic. It’s effortless, although they barely know each other.

It’s also inexplicable, at least from Love. As for Andrew, he’s a human male who likes what he sees, and she’s an otherworldly creature, and that makes his attraction obvious. This is how her matches act whenever they’re about to shear one another’s clothes off.

For some reason, this explanation overtakes her like a landslide. Swift and devastating. This forbidden bond with Andrew is wrong. He’s her enemy and her target. Although she longs for him to keep touching her with his words, and while she longs to echo the sentiments, such endeavors will cause irreparable destruction.

“We must stop,” she stresses.

“I don’t want to,” he says flatly.

“Please. Do it for me.”

Andrew rotates the cup in his grip while considering. At length, he gives a mock toast. “Safe zone it is.”

Love sags, her body calming down from the onslaught. Disappointment, frustration, and relief tug her in several directions.

Andrew talks about the legends that have inspired him, and she describes the tales she wishes existed. Love boasts about the first time she achieved a direct hit during archery practice, and he asks about her shooting techniques. They compare cultures and traditions, but too soon they go quiet.

She folds her legs to the side and marvels, “How have I been assigned to this territory for three months and overlooked you?”

Andrew gives that earnest thought. “I’m a public persona who hides behind his author photo. Otherwise, I keep a low profile in town. In that sense, we have invisibility in common.”

“Except it’s voluntary for you. Whereas the opposite is true for me.”

Setting down the cup, he rolls up his sleeves, which exposes his forearms. “Are you sure about that?”

Love wavers. Is she truly isolated by choice? That is how The Fates would describe it.

“What made The Stars choose Evershire for you?” he inquires.

She glances beyond the translucent walls. “There are many people in need of assistance here.”

“Lonely people?”

“Sometimes.”

“Heartbroken people?”

---