Page 88 of Touch

Love whines, her spine arching, her hair in disarray around her face. She clasps his nape and swats her hips, moaning harder when his teeth nick the peak.

She had intended to arrange the fur around them, but with his mouth feasting on her and the column of his erection pressing into her folds, she can barely think coherently, lacking the strength to do more than release a splintered cry.

“Christ,” Andrew mutters against her breast. “Love.”

Her name ripping from his mouth is a benediction, a rite of passage. It’s all she wants. Ultimately, it’s all she will ever have.

The utterance snaps something within her. Love flips her head down to his, catching Andrew’s gaze in the net of hers. Their pupils fasten, the impact thrusting a jolt through her, like stars colliding.

Somehow, he knows what she’ll do. Snaring her ass, Andrew hoists her forward, leveling his cock with her entrance. At the same time, Love jostles atop his lap, positioning herself.

His gaze cements with her own. Like two pieces soldering into one, she lowers herself, the flanks of her pussy sealing around him, her flesh grabbing his length, his cock filling every crevice, flaring her wide.

Oh. Fucking. Stars.

Love’s mouth hangs open. Her flesh crackles like dynamite. This, merely from his penetration, his skin welding to hers, touching as closely as possible.

Her awed features reflect in Andrew’s gaze. Cupping her scalp with a free hand, Andrew brings her lips to his. Only then does his growl break apart, as if he’d anticipated this and needed a place for his voice to land.

Overwhelmed, she brings herself down on his cock fully. Its firmness closes a hollow inside her, flooding it with amaelstrom of devastating sensations. For a moment, they pause, the woodland frozen around them.

Andrew runs his palm from Love’s scalp to her jaw, clasping it while his other hand palms her backside. Fixing her in place, he pivots his hips, skids out of Love, and hisses, “Selfish Little Myth.” Then he gently whips his cock upward again. “You have just ruined me.”

Afflicted, Love grits her teeth. She swivels her hips, gyrating in sync with his cock, her drenched cunt gripping him. Yet the abrasion grows worse instead of better, as if what they need is out of range. The result steals her breath, whisks it away into the night.

Love rises and falls onto her mortal, bobbing above his lap while her skirt quivers. Andrew groans with every fluid pass, her walls clutching him tighter. They fling themselves into one another, waists undulating, moans cutting into the forest.

The rest of their bodies participate, the muscles of his abdomen contracting as his waist snaps upward, his cock lurching. Love’s own body coils back and forth in serpentine motions, enhancing the pleasure.

A guttural noise carves from Andrew’s throat, and Love grins through her cries. Mortals fuck well; he’s proof of that. Whereas deities rut with vigor and magic flowing in their veins. For a human, the ecstasy is heightened to an immeasurable degree.

But although Love worries she’ll eviscerate him and frets whether to stop this, Andrew expels a low, velveteen laugh as if she should know better. He pumps in slowly. “You’ve forgotten what I write for a living. I’m very creative when I want to be.” He pulls back out. “So now I’m going to fuck you—” then in, “—like no god ever will.” And out. “I’m going to fuck you—” and in, “—like a mortal.”

Releasing her jaw, Andrew grabs the stump’s rim, leans back, and lashes his hips. He charges forth, opening her pussy with keen thrusts, soaking her thoroughly, matching Love’s vitality as though they’ve created an energy of their own.

Straddling his cock, Love weeps aloud. “Andrew!”

“That’s it,” he encourages, palming her ass in one hand and rocking her forward. “Ride your human. Feel my cock touching your pussy.”

He’s right. How could she have overlooked the carnal scenes she’s read in his books? This man fucks as if he’s made partners come a thousand times, in a thousand ways, using a thousand otherworldly tactics. His experience includes the pages he’s composed, therefore he knows how to make a goddess scream.

The head of his erection strikes a narrow place that has Love shouting in despair. Beset, she meets his stamina with her own, and they surge into motion. Angry at the universe for placing a barrier between them, sorrowful for what they’ll inevitably lose, envious of the others who don’t suffer this fate, and wondrous for what they’ve found nevertheless. It’s forbidden consummation, passionate fucking, and defiant lovemaking.

Love flays her waist, and Andrew pistons his cock. Her quiver rattles, arrows in danger of toppling, and the velocity pulls the dress’s bodice down farther. Both breasts spill into the eventide, the nipples flushed and puckered.

Andrew straightens, kissing the cleft between her breasts. Never losing pace, the mortal plucks Love’s skirt and peels the garment from her skin, bunching it under the quiver’s harness. She pauses only long enough to draw her arms overhead, enabling him to divest her of the fabric.

The dress lands in the snow, where their shadows writhe. The mortal grins through his lust, rapt by the vision of Lovemounting him in nothing but her archery. Then his smirk dissolves into another growl. Resuming his posture, he reclines at an angle, holding the stump and her buttocks, the leverage intensifying every snap of his cock.

Love clasps his nape, tilting her frame away, the position offering an unhampered view of her mortal. He’s on the brink of climax but holding back. She drives herself into him, pushing him harder, their hips slamming at an excessive rate.

Sobs pour from her lungs, her pussy clenches around his cock, and she gushes onto him. Under beams of starlight, this man fucks her back. More than that, he makes love while holding her gaze—claiming, endearing, cherishing her.

The world is reduced to frost, nightfall, and this human. The resonance of his groans, the sensuous flex of his torso, the way he looks at Love. Her vision stings, because it’s clear now.

It’s not the touch that matters. It’s the bond.

Whether rough and fast, gentle and slow, the rapture is the same. So long as it occurs with the right soul.

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