Untethering Dark

Chapter Twenty

Stripping down to bare skin, Astrid smiled to herself. She kissed Altes Geweih.

The bone of his cheek had been smooth, and while she expected it to be cool, a little warmth radiated from within, an ember next to the crackling fire that was the rest of him. The forest god threw off waves of heat, as many furred beings tended to do, and it kept her from needing to come inside sooner, to thaw in front of the hearth.

The pads of her fingers still tingled from touching his antlers; she removed her mittens to appreciate their topography. They were not so smooth as the rest of him. Grooves and bumps and striations marked their surface, and the prongs, while not knife sharp, would undoubtedly gore anyone within range of his great swinging head.

Meine Hexechen.

His little witch. As if he already claimed her.

Astrid’s smile widened.

Ignoring how much he wanted her was no easy feat. For someone whose usual methods were “fuck first, ask questions later” sticking to her resolve to savor him just a while longer was an unusual exercise in emotional edging.

A glacial breeze blew in through her cracked window, kept open a little wider than most fellow Deutsche. While it seemed like something only a Winter Hexe would do, even the humans of this alpine country didn’t let freezing temps stop them from welcoming fresh air into their homes. It had been a hard adjustment for Suri, who’d grown up in much hotter climes.

Remembering a promise she made, Astrid pulled out the prepaid phone she kept in her nightstand drawer and shot off a text to the only saved contact.

All is well. Just more chatting she’d gotten the tattoo with her coven sister Dahlia, who had one to match—their version of the friendship bracelet, only simpler and permanent.

But the skin along her left arm was tattooed from shoulder to wrist with line drawings of various poisonous plants. A token from her younger, wilder years traveling abroad. A fun, adventuresome time that had been, when she did reckless things like strut into a satyr Bacchanal with a flirtatious smile.

Astrid settled into bed, the space beside her empty and cold. Maybe she should have asked Gudarīks to stay.

Astrid walked barefoot in the snow, passing through her front gate. Though she wore nothing more than a thin nightgown, the cold did not touch her. Desire for the old forest god kept her warm, each step leaving melted tracks that quickly froze over to ice.

Gudarīks waited for her at the tree stump, one clawed obsidian hand outstretched. “You offer yourself to me?” Those were the first words he ever said to her.

But this time, there was no doubt about what he meant.

She lifted her chin, fiercely meeting his crimson gaze, as she placed her hand in his. “Yes.”

Her knees sank into the snow as he bent her over the offering stump and flipped up her nightgown, icy wind kissing her bared skin. Bracing herself across its top, thighs brushing worn and weathered bark, she briefly thought about how well her dalliances with satyrs had prepared her for this moment.

With a sharp tug, the forest god yanked on her nightgown, snapping the straps so her breasts tumbled freely, then crouched down from behind. With one claw, he carefully traced the length of her spine from neck to the cleft of her ass, sending delicious shivers down her body.

“Such a decadent treat,” he purred.

Yes, his treat, all his. Whatever he wanted of her, she wanted him to take it.

“Devour me,” she begged, raising her hips. “Please.”

She was nothing if not a wanting and willing sacrifice.

Long, smooth tongue met cold, exposed flesh, lapping and licking between her thighs and cheeks like she was the sweetest candy. And what a diligent, industrious tongue it was, swirling and plumbing depths, leaving no bit of her untouched and blurring the lines between who was supplicant and who was deity demanding worship.

Pleasurable sensation consumed her, rearranged her insides, chewed her up, and spat her out a panting mess, clinging to the tree stump for dear life. Her nails bit crescent moons into the wood.

Just when she thought she’d explode, stars dotting her vision and mouth numb and salivating from all the lovely stimulation, he withdrew.

A sharp, needy cry escaped her lips. She hadn’t meant to make her displeasure known, but the absence of his cunning tongue was so jarring she could weep.

“Shhh. Patience, meine Hexechen. More is coming to you.”

“Please—I’m ready.”

“We shall see.”

He tested and teased her folds with a knuckle, making sure she was amply slick, and of course she was. After all the care he’d taken with his tongue, her pleasure trickled down her inner thighs. It was a slow, lazy exploration, driving her wild with need, but she bit back her protestations. Every now and again Astrid liked to play the part of a good girl.

“Get ready to take me, witch. All of me.”

She pleaded once more.

It all happened so fast.

He mounted raw and hard like a stag in rut, chasing a quick, carnal end. It cleared her mind of all else. Just that steady, unforgiving rhythm. The indulgent collide of flesh, nerve endings ripe and ablaze.

She spread her thighs wider to take him deeper, the remains of her nightgown bunching around her waist. Her moans echoed out into the night.

“There’s a good witch,” he rasped, pleased.

“Mark me. Make me yours.”

A few simple words and he unraveled completely.

A choked groan erupted from him as his grip on her hips tightened and, tilting his great antlered head back, he finished, dappled haunches flexing.

Astrid jolted awake, drenched in sweat.

Her bed was empty, the night quiet. It hadn’t been real—just a quick, dirty dream—and this furious ache wasn’t one of fulfillment. Thrusting a hand between her thighs, she replayed the dream over and over, until she came with a gasp. But the relief was only temporary, her arousal coming back with a raging vengeance.

Try and try and try again, but sleep was elusive after that, sunrise still hours away.

With a frustrated growl, she threw off her covers and padded to the kitchen, yanking out all the ingredients to make the jam-filled Kirsch Marzipan Pl?tzchen. But not because she needed yet another batch of cookies.

A distraction. Something, anything, to busy her hands and keep her from running outside and shouting into the mountains for Gudarīks like a predigital age booty call. Maybe he’d like that, or maybe he’d think that was rather rude.

Patience was not a strength of hers, but the one advantage to this sleepless, unfulfilling night was that she now knew unequivocally that she wanted Gudarīks.

Astrid kneaded her frustrations into the dough until it was time to visit Mutter’s and take her second dose of hag potion.