Wren #2
He took my hand. Pressed it to his chest, over the stuttering rhythm of his heartbeat. Then he pressed his own hand between my breasts, palm flat against my sternum.
“Feel,” he said. “Find me. Pull me. Back.”
I closed my eyes.
His heartbeat under my palm. Slow. Wrong. The long pauses getting longer.
My heartbeat under his palm. Racing. Alive. Strong.
I breathed. Tried to slow my pulse. Tried to find his rhythm and match it.
Slower.
Slower.
There.
Something happened.
Not a sound. Not a feeling I had words for. Like a key sliding into a lock I didn’t know I had. Like a door opening in a wall I thought was solid.
I felt it through the bond.
Not just his body under mine. Not just his heart under my hand. I felt him. Everything. The vast exhaustion pulling him down into darkness. The desperate longing that had him clawing toward my voice. The fear that he would lose himself before he could touch me one more time.
And beneath all of it, woven through every part of him: me.
His mind was full of me. Memories I hadn’t known he was keeping.
The way I’d walked toward him in the market, chin high, choosing him.
The way I’d laughed in the library, surprised by my own joy.
The way I looked when I slept, peaceful in a way I never was awake, and he’d watched for hours because he couldn’t bear to look away.
I was crying. Tears sliding down my cheeks, dripping onto his chest.
“Tavrin.” His name tasted different now. Like it had always been mine to say.
His eyes were open. Clearer. The gold brightening as the bond pulled him back toward the surface.
“More,” he said. “Need. More of you.”
I understood.
I reached between us. Found the laces of his pants, tugged them loose, worked the fabric down just enough. He helped where he could, weak fingers fumbling alongside mine. And then there was nothing between us.
He burned against my palm. Hard. Bigger than I’d prepared myself for, even knowing his size, even having felt him pressed against me before. The reality of him in my hand made me dizzy.
“Slow,” he said. “Take. What you need. Don’t hurt yourself.”
I rose up on my knees. Positioned him at my entrance. Felt the blunt pressure of him waiting, patient, letting me set the pace.
I sank down.
Slowly. Inch by inch. Feeling my body stretch to accommodate him, the burn of it, the fullness. He seared inside me. Like taking the sun into my body. Like being claimed by fire.
The sound he made was broken. Raw. Reverent. His fingers pressed into my thighs, not guiding, just holding, just feeling me take him in.
“Wren.” My name in his mouth like a prayer. “Wren. Wren.”
I took all of him. Settled my weight in his lap with him buried to the hilt, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel him inside me, around me, so deep I didn’t know where I ended and he began.
“Move.” His voice was stronger now. The glaze fading from his eyes. “Please. Need. To feel you. Move.”
I moved.
Slow at first. Rolling my hips. Learning the angle, the rhythm, what made him gasp and grip tighter. The drag of him inside me sent sparks up my spine.
His thoughts bled into mine. I felt what he felt: the slick grip of me around him, the way my body squeezed him when I moved a certain way, the desperate need to stay present for this, to feel every second.
I moved faster.
His hips started to meet mine. Weak thrusts at first, then stronger as the bond fed him energy, as my life poured into the empty places. His hands slid up my back, pulled me down against his chest.
“Wren.” His mouth found my throat. “I can’t. I need...”
“Take what you need,” I gasped. “Whatever you need. I’m yours.”
He surged up.
One moment I was on top, in control, and the next I was on my back in the nest with his weight pressing me down and his wings rising around us like walls.
The feathers brushed my bare arms, my shoulders, softer than silk and warm from his body.
He drove into me and I cried out, pleasure and shock and the overwhelming feeling of being completely surrounded.
I felt it through the bond. The word he couldn’t form, the possessive roar trapped in a throat that had forgotten how to shape language. Mine. Mine. MINE.
“Yours,” I gasped. “Always. Tavrin, I’m yours.”
He set a pace that stole my breath. Deep.
Relentless. His body curving over mine, his wings blocking out the world, his golden eyes fixed on my face like he was memorizing every expression I made.
I counted without meaning to: one thrust, two, three, each one driving me higher, my scribe’s mind cataloging sensation because I didn’t know what else to do with so much feeling.
I could feel his fever breaking. The frantic heat giving way to something steadier, something sustainable. The bond was working. I was pulling him back from the edge.
And I could feel something else building. A pressure low in my belly, growing with every thrust, every slide of his body against mine. I was close. So close.
“Let go,” he said, and his voice was clear now, present, him. “I want to feel you. Let go.”
I shattered.
And he followed.
His release poured through me, golden and overwhelming, felt his wings snap wide above us. Something locked into place between us. A snap. A seal.