Page 90 of Touch

When his fingers caress her shoulder blades, Andrew whispers. “What do they look like?”

Love’s wings tremble inside her. Not surprising, he has deduced that she hides them willfully, though it’s evident he’s been withholding this question, somehow aware it’s a sensitive subject. “They’re black like my soul,” she replies. “The wingspan is impressive, if I do say so myself. But please do not ask why I conceal them.”

“I’ll resist for now,” Andrew assures her. “But you don’t have to hide anything from me.”

Love glances away, feeling bashful, reassured, and depraved. Damn this mortal for corrupting her heart. She wishes his declaration were true.

Although his cock remains hard within her, the temperature drops farther. It’s evident from the tint of his skin.

The question Andrew had once asked flits through Love’s mind.Who takes care of you?

She must get her mortal warm. Defying his protests, Love eases off his cock, her pussy releasing him while their gazes remain tethered, savoring the sensation.

Gathering their clothes and weapons, they race naked to the cottage, leaving only the blanket behind. In her bathroom, the tub fills on its own. Andrew groans in relief when he sinks into the water, rests his head against the rim, and opens his arms. “Get over here.”

Love flashes him a wicked smirk through the curtain of steam, and his eyes consume her as she descends into the foamy liquid.

“I can see your beautiful tits through the bubbles,” he teases.

“I can see more of you,” she flirts, eyeing the outlines of his muscles underwater.

Andrew moves to grab her, but Love slips behind him, bending her limbs on either side of his hips. He straps her arms over his abs, and she nips his ear.

“I’ll be fucking you in this tub soon,” he says in a gruff timbre. “On the floor. In your bed. Against the wall. I’m going to make you come on every surface of this cottage. But first, I’m desperate to hold you until you fall asleep.”

“I would like that very much,” she whispers. “As well as the rest of it.”

They watch his fingers thaw. Afterward, Andrew retrieves a towel and dries her. His hands drift over Love’s damp toes,ascend her limbs to the patch of hair shrouding her pussy, then to her wet navel, dripping breasts, and steam-flushed cheeks, which he cradles in his palms.

Love’s eyes flutter shut. She commits this experience to memory.

Who takes care of you?

For tonight, he does. And she will take care of him.

Seizing her turn, Love runs the towel over his muscles, his cock, his arms, his throat. The gesture is intimate, akin to a mating ritual, and fills her with wonder.

Because Love is his Selfish Little Myth—she’s grown fond of the nickname—she wants to keep going, keep fucking him, keep letting him fuck her. However, he has made a request, and they must rest to regain their stamina.

Darkness blankets the forest, starlight and firelight glossing the walls. Andrew hoists Love up into his arms, her ankles linking around his ass, her fingers toying with his hair as he carries her to bed. He whispers filthy, doting promises that she will hold him to. Until then, they sink under the blanket.

Love crawls to Andrew, and he extends those safe arms to her. Because she likes being on top, she sprawls her weight over his torso, her limbs straddling his waist. The mortal tucks her against him, nestling Love’s head into his neck and combing through her hair while her eyelids flutter closed.

Yet at midnight, Love wakes up. She doesn’t require as much sleep, so she listens to the mortal’s steady breaths, his chest contracting like a landmass beneath her. A place where she wishes to live forever.

He’s peaceful. She’s restless.

Warning herself to play nice instead of naughty, Love veers her head and bites into a pillow. Then quietly, tentatively, she turns back to him. Her heartbeat staggers, her nipples stiffen, and the nexus of her thighs grows wet.

Carefully, she slips out of bed to retrieve an arrow, then returns with the weapon poised in her grip. Slinking across the mattress, Love uses the arrowhead to usher the blanket down Andrew’s waist. Then in one illicit move, she shears through the material, exposing him fully.

He groans in his sleep, the harsh sound piercing through the air. Silently, she begs his pardon, then continues. Maneuvering the severed blanket out of the way, she swings one leg across his waist and admires the V of his hips, which flank the solid girth of his cock.

Andrew stirs, moving as though in unconscious offering while the tip of her arrow inches toward his cock like the deadliest sex toy in history. With careful ministrations, she lightly skims the outline of his length, then circles the head, which swells wider. The mortal hums, his body arching in slumber as she teases him with her weapon, cautiously grazing, coaxing his erection, enlarging its size.

Such a lovely-shaped cock. And so sensitive.

Tossing aside the weapon, she extends her hand. It takes years to reach his body, days for her fingers to scrape down his throat, hours to make contact with his torso. She drags her fingers across Andrew’s muscles.

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