Page 39 of The Demons in the Deep: Extended Edition
She did not respond, because he did not expect her to. He knew she would have given her own hand to save his. There was no need to express her sympathy every time; it was understood between them that she would listen quietly to whatever he needed to say.
The strong herbal tang of the liniment filled Kestra’s nostrils as she spread a thin layer over the wounded end of his arm. She snipped off a clean bandage and began wrapping it as Graves had showed her. “It’s healing well,” she said. “As much as I dislike Graves as a person, he’s a skilled physik. You should be ready for your new hand in a few weeks.”
“By the end of the Meridian Games then,” he mused. “Unlikely that Mai will have time to fabricate the hand, though. She’ll be helping us. And then, if we place in the top three, we’ll be on our way.”
“And if we don’t?” Kestra asked.
“Blossom.” He laid his hand along her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin. “I will find a way out of this. For you and Mai at the very least. You won’t be enslaved, not while I’m alive and kicking. I swear it.”
Kestra finished the bandage and looked up, into the open face and honest blue eyes she knew so well. Laying aside the supplies, she touched his cheek too, running the backs of her knuckles along his tanned skin.
“How do you exist?” she asked softly. “With all of the pain and darkness in this city, with all the sins of your family—you should be as wicked as they are. You should be twisted and torn. Yet—you shine. There’s a light in you that illuminates everything.”
“I make mistakes,” he whispered.
“Don’t I know it.” She leaned in, touching her mouth to his. The delicate contact wasn’t enough—she leaned in deeper, tasting the flavors of him—rich wine, a hint of salt and spice, a tang of citrus. “I love you,” she breathed between his lips, and put her tongue in his mouth. His tongue slid beneath hers, a slick caress, and his strong fingers cupped the nape of her neck, a steady pressure.
Kestra was glowing inside, her belly warming with the tender lust she always felt for him. When his hand swept lower, over her breasts, she tugged down the bodice of the gown to give him full access.
Flay ducked his head to her breast, moaning his satisfaction, his tongue circling her nipple. Kestra could feel her underwear soaking through, slickness coating her sex.
“I need this dress off, Flay,” she hissed.
He rose, drawing her to her feet as well, and they both undressed in a desperate hurricane of boots, pants, skirts, and underthings.
“Do you want to be on top?” she gasped, breathless as Flay gathered her in, adoring every curve with his hand. She always asked now, because with only one hand to brace himself, being on top could be harder for him sometimes, if he was very tired.
“I want you to ride me, Blossom.” His voice, smooth and golden, at her ear. “But first, let me taste you. Get on the bed.”
“Yes, Captain,” she whispered.
Kestra had no compunction about revealing all of herself to him, every crease and dimple, every generous curve. She knew she was beautiful, and he adored that beauty so intensely she could never doubt it.
Skin flushed with heat, legs arched and spread, she lay on the bed, while Flay settled on his elbows between her thighs. His fingers glided languidly through her folds, glazing her with her own wetness, and Kestra whimpered, grasping the edges of the pillow with both hands. “Tides, Flay. Please, oh please.”
He chuckled and put his mouth on her. A long hot lash of his tongue—once, and again, and Kestra clamped her hand over her lips to seal in the sounds. Her other hand reached down, desperate, and he gripped it with his own while he devoured her, deeply, thoroughly, with a relish that sent her over the edge, her thighs quivering, her belly racing with swirls of pleasure.
Flay came up with wet lips, wiped his mouth on his forearm and lay back on the bed beside her with a satisfied grin on his face. “Always so delicious, Blossom.”
Still tremulous from her climax, Kestra kneeled astride his hips, reaching down to give his hard length a loving stroke. She tucked her thumb against the underside, just beneath the head, and rubbed a little there, smiling wickedly as he gasped and his abdomen tensed into beautiful ridges of muscle.
“If you don’t stop that I’m going to come,” he panted.
“Not yet,” she said, and tucked him into her heat. She slid down until she was fully seated, and Flay bucked, his hips jerking reflexively upward. “Savage seas,” he swore. “How do you feel so divine, every time? Blossom, I can’t bear it—”
She rode him then, unmercifully, pumping herself on him faster and faster. And while she watched his blue eyes turn glassy, watched his beautiful mouth part and his body harden under her, she thoughtI love you, I love you,over and over. As if she could erase the cruelty of his family with the sheer passion of her love. As if her body could suck away all his pain and anxiety. And perhaps it did, for a little while.
He came hard inside her, with a cry he didn’t bother to quell. She slowed her pace, letting her body soothe him through the ebbing pleasure, then settling deep again and feeling one last answering throb of his length. Flay was coated in a light sweat, his golden waves curling damp around his face—glowing, beautiful, and hers.
And inwardly she swore, as he had sworn, that nothing would part them.
THE RACE
11
Mai woke late on the day after the ball. She wasn’t pleased about it, for she’d planned to get an early start and explore the academic district of the city, particularly the university and its library.
But she was exhausted, brain to bones, and for once her busy mind had stayed quiet all night.
