Page 84 of Touch

The tempo reminds her of the way he’d lapped at her cunt through the blanket, only deeper, sharper. A shrill whine vaults up her throat, and Andrew devours the noise, the skilled piston of his tongue driving her a little bit mad.

With his fingers tangled in Love’s hair, the mortal locks her skull in place and crushes their mouths together. Fusing his lips to her own, he captures every moan, every pass of her own tongue, every tremble.

As their skates make slicing noises over the pond, the kiss restores her life’s blood to its former glory. She attacks him. Intensifying the kiss, Love hoists herself against Andrew, her body shoving toward his, her breasts swelling into his pectorals. She feasts on that razor-sharp tongue, etches the rims of his teeth, and licks into Andrew.

The mortal snarls and grinds his mouth over hers. His tongue meets every punch of her own, slamming his kiss into her.

It is not the exploratory first kisses she has witnessed between human lovers. Rather, it’s a collision. Possessive and rampant. Yet it stirs her soul, the rhythmic lunge of his mouth breaking through her, cracking open her heart like a locket.

It’s raw. It’s defiant. It’s real.

Unleashing a coarse sound, Andrew releases her scalp, then shoves his hands into her coat and fists the sides of her dress. At Love’s hungry moan and swift nod of permission, his palms dip lower, sneaking beneath the hem and over the bare flanks of her ass. The corner of his mouth lifts against her lips when he remembers she has disregarded her panties. In answer, Love drags her tongue over the seam of his grinning mouth.

Then his sensuous digits travel up and down the swells, so near to her aching cunt. Love curls herself into him, needing more, and more, and more. With pleasure, Andrew cups her naked backside, rubbing in circles and drawing a mewl from her throat.

The instant she nips his lower lip, Andrew hisses again. Snaring her ass in his grip, he hoists Love against him and shoves his mouth into hers. The impact sends her into delirium, her thoughts spiraling from the decadent pressure of his lips, the delicious pitch of his tongue.

This cannot end. It must never end.

Andrew drives his lips into hers, their tongues lashing. Hot pants thrust from his lungs, the temperature intangible yet present all the same. The vibration of his growl treks across her palate, down her spine, and between her thighs.

She moans and launches into his mouth, taking his tongue, giving hers in kind, thinking that maybe kisses have a bottom. Maybe she can find it. And if she does, that’s where she will live and die.

30

Love walks backward while drawing Andrew through the woods, her hands fisting his collar. He follows her lead with a ravenous expression, the glint in his eyes stirring her blood. He sees nothing but her, wants nothing but her, worships nothing but her. For once in Love’s primal life, she truly feels like a goddess.

Within his mortal gaze, she is invincible. And in reciprocation, Love perceives nothing but this man.

The late afternoon sun has disappeared, eventide descending fully. Fresh moonlight casts them in pearlescent light, its ambience eclipsed by the blaze in Andrew’s pupils. She tugs him past the evergreens, their foreheads pressing, and he backhands a needle shrub, swiping it out of their way.

The corner of Love’s mouth tips upward. Andrew mirrors the gesture, his mouth curling like a deviant thing. Right then, he could be an immortal. A god of fiction, as she once imagined. She cannot fathom him representing any single emotion though, for he embodies them all, redefining the meanings of anger, wonder, sorrow, and envy. Those, as well as fear, joy, guilt, and bliss.

They grin, their panting breaths playing a heavy staccato through the wilderness. Sauntering backward, she mutters against his lips, “I like making noise with you.”

“Be careful giving me ideas,” he warns. “Or I’m liable to get even more noises out ofyou.”

“That is not a warning.”

“No.” Andrew’s fingers grasp her coat and yank it apart. “It’s fucking not.”

It’s a promise. The most enticing of predictions.

Love gasps happily into his mouth, the material splitting to expose her tiny dress, the tips of her nipples poking through the bodice. She wrestles herself out of the mantle; at the same time, Andrew wrenches the sleeves down her arms, the vestment thudding to the snow.

Because his coat is next, Andrew flattens his palms over Love’s tailbone and hums into her lips, “Help me.”

This tenacious mortal does not require assistance. Yet the flirtatious invitation plies her with shivers, the request its own brand of foreplay.

Love, I need you to help me.

I need you.

Help me.

She enjoys this erotic game, how Andrew beseeches her for such a simple thing, and she wants him to demand more, in a dozen ways before the night is over.

With a dominating pull, Love strips the longbow from his broad shoulders, then moves to his coat.

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