Chapter Thirty-Six. Daye
Daye
Daye hurled herself into sex like it was a new game they’d invented.
There was the actuality of the changes in her body. Breasts. New vacancies where there had been none. Even her skin changed, growing more alive, sensations skating across it like motions on tissue-thin ice, every glide sending waves under the frozen crust.
At first, she tried to pin down the sensations.
To articulate them into shape. The feel of Rory inside her.
His tongue, his fingers, his penis thrusting between her legs, in this new hole that seems to tunnel all the way to the heart of her.
The taste of sweat on her lips. Of salty, tart fluids on her tongue.
The rawness of her throat. The way his touch seemed to ask, sometimes, a question she couldn’t understand.
How did it feel?
In spring their touches had been hesitant, soft. All pastel colors and pale, budding light. Padded with blankets, with grass, with the supple unfamiliarity of skin on skin. Sending golden heat winging through her gently, so very gently. A hushed, delicate brush.
In summer everything was heat and friction and sound.
Light glancing red through her eyelids. The sun gilding the cocksfoot and the hare’s-tail, a bright, harsh sort of white.
Lake water in her hair, grass stains on her knees, the sultriness of body on body, skin to skin.
Pleasure cresting, leaving behind lax fatigue.
Rory whispering in her ear, “Shh, just let me adore you.”
How did it feel? It felt like a new version of the games they used to play, before Rory became too old for them.
An expedition, an exploration, a treasure hunt.
A slow delineation of borders or a fast and thrilling rush through the topography, hurtling her body off precipices again and again and again, with Rory’s hand always, always held in hers.
And for the first time in a long, long while, Daye believed that he wouldn’t let go.