Page 85 of Touch

“Perhaps we should pace ourselves,” she utters while fighting with the garment. “We should retire indoors, take this slowly.”

“We will,” Andrew rasps, shedding the vestment from his body. “But much later. I’m going to savor you all night, in every location, from every angle, and at every speed until you can’t tell slow-fucking from fast.”

“I’ve been taught to expect little from humans. My kind says your skills fail to exceed those of deities. Care to prove this theory wrong?”

“Watch me.” He jerks her into him. “Watch this human fuck up your assumptions.”

The crease between her thighs slickens. “Then you have my permission.”

True, they don’t need to be slow. These touches have long since been earned, for they have waited so long, been denied one another for too many days. Also, the night is young, the hours stretching before them like a gift.

Or perhaps a vice. Surely, a guilty pleasure.

It had been marvelous, satisfying to use words and objects to achieve rapture. But the moment their fingers had brushed, the second their mouths had crushed together on that pond, had been transcendent. Indeed, it had blown Love’s expectations to dust.

Although they carry their archery, the skates have been abandoned at the pond, discarded by their wearers in haste, in exchange for boots with undone laces. They’ve barely traveled fifty yards into the wilderness, their mouths clamped. This makes for a hectic journey home, with each of them taking turns shoving the other against a tree, their tongues going mad.

No. They are not making it to the cottage.

Little else changes once they reach this unspoken agreement. Rather, everything progresses with greater intensity.

Love rips through Andrew’s sweater and the layer beneath, the frayed material landing atop their coats. At last, his chest expands into view. Toned slabs of muscle flex before her, from the sculpted clavicles to the smooth pectorals and the hard stack of abs leading to the band of his pants. His waist tapers into the belted material, a line of fine dark hair—in contrast to his pale layers—trickling between the ramps of his hipbones.

Stars eternal. The thick groove beneath his pants outlines his cock, which stands tall against the fabric. Love wants tobrand herself against him, claim every bit of skin and sinew. Until the thirteenth day, this magnificent human belongs to her.

“Touch me like you once said you would,” she implores.

Andrew groans, dips his head to the crook of her neck, and speaks into her pulse point. “My pleasure, Selfish Myth.”

He snatches Love’s ass and backs her toward a high stump. “Hold onto me,” he commands, then hauls Love off her feet and drops her atop the surface. Grabbing her knees, Andrew gives a firm tug, jolting her to the stump’s edge, her spread thighs flanking his waist. Piles of snow and pinecones fall from the rim, tumbling across the ground.

“First, your mouth,” Andrew husks, running his pinkie over her lips. “Then your shoulders.” Dragging his hands down her throat, he slides down the straps of her dress, mapping her skin along the way. “Then your arms.” He traces each bicep with the backs of his knuckles, every touch inciting mayhem between her limbs, the folds of her pussy clenching.

His decadent ministrations overwhelm her. From Love’s shoulders, Andrew palms her breasts, her nipples surfacing beneath his thumbs, the studs aching when he circles them, the skin ruching through her dress.

Love trembles in his arms. She buries her fingernails into his shoulder blades, her body surrounded by him, enveloped by him. This alone causes her eyes to roll back, the contact surreal, like a fever dream.

Next, her stomach, then the dip of her spine, then her legs and ankles. Her cunt pulsates, leaking onto the stump. Aggravation and need assault the supple flesh, her walls straining for his hand.

Love shimmies closer. The motion splays her wider, her bare walls smearing his pants.

Andrew must feel the heat of her, because his eyelids hood. “Play fair.”

“If I must obey, I shall not play at all,” she declares. “Or are you intimidated to try—”

Her bravado is cut short, her words ending on a stunned moan when his fingers strike a path up her inner thighs, then the tip of one finger rows up and down her slit. From the wet opening to the peak of her clit, Andrew swabs his digit lightly, coaxing more liquid from Love’s passage, which glosses his finger.

“Ah,” she keens, flattening one palm behind her on the stump, the other strapping around his nape for balance.

The mortal groans. “Say it again. Intimidated to try what?”

“Andrew,” she mewls, parting her limbs farther. “Never mind.”

“There’s a good goddess.”

“Bad,” she amends. “Never good.”

With a guttural chuckle, Andrew thumbs her clit, presses down, and circles the dainty skin. Love’s mouth falls open. Her hips rock into his hand, blood surging to the cleft of her pussy, her nerves about to combust.

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