Chapter 14
fourteen
. . .
Tansy
The grove still sings.
Not with sound exactly, but with something more ancient, more intimate …
a hum in my skin, a shiver in the petals.
The ritual lingers in my bones like warmth after bathwater, like breath after crying.
Every nerve is open. Every inch of me humming.
And when Solenne turns to me, the light of the heartbloom catching on the pale strands of her hair, I fall into her without a single word.
She catches me.
We tumble into the moss together, between the garden beds where mint and valerian grow, where moonflowers shiver with residual magic.
I kiss her first, hands cradling her face like something sacred.
Her lips are soft and warm, but the magic between us is sharper, almost feral.
It sparks along my spine, a thread of heat pulled taut between our bodies.
When I pull back, her eyes are wide, pupils blown, and her hands are trembling. I press my forehead to hers.
“You’re sure?” she whispers, voice like wind through wheat.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Something opens between us.
She exhales, and the garden exhales with her.
The vines move slowly, deliberately, wrapping around my wrists and thighs in a gentle, curious embrace.
Like they’re asking permission. Like they’re offering worship.
I gasp as the first loop tightens, not hard, just present.
Solenne strokes my cheek with the backs of her fingers.
“They listen to me,” she murmurs, “but they respond to you.”
The petals unfurl across her skin. Blush tipped, dewy.
They bloom along her collarbones, the curves of her breasts, her stomach.
Everywhere I touch, more flowers appear.
Her already heady scent is stronger now, like violets and honeyed sap.
I sink to my knees beside her and bury my face in her neck, drinking it in.
I can’t stop kissing her skin. It tastes like honey and something wilder.
She doesn’t undress me all at once. She peels me open like fruit, slow and reverent, whispering little things in a language I don’t know. Her hands are warm, her mouth warmer, and her praise comes in low, steady pulses.
The words slip out before I can stop them. “You smell like sweet clover.”
“You sound like a bloom opening.”
“I could live in your softness.”
Each word roots deeper. I arch against her, the vines holding me delicately but firmly in place. Her thigh presses between mine, and I grind down, greedy, aching. She watches me like she’s watching something miraculous, and when I whimper, high and helpless, she hums.
“You don’t need to hide here.”
She slides her hand between my legs and I sob.
It’s too much. It’s not enough.
Her fingers are slow, coaxing, and the vines pulse with her rhythm. Every brush of skin is mirrored by tendrils of green, stroking along my sides, curling up my spine. The sensory layering sends me spiraling.
I come the first time with her mouth at my throat, her fingers deep inside me, the garden blooming around us like an exhale. She holds me as I shake, whispering grounding spells into my hair.
“Good girl,” she says. “Sweet thing. My wildflower.”
I sob again. She doesn’t stop.
The vines shift, loosen, then reposition, lifting my hips, opening me wide. She spreads my thighs and kneels between them, reverent and ruinous. Her mouth finds me, and I swear the stars flicker even though the morning is already rising behind the treetops, turning the dew to gold.
She licks me like she’s learning a language. Like each stroke is an incantation. I curl one hand into her hair, the other into the moss, and try not to scream.
It doesn’t work.
She moans when I do. The sound vibrates through me. I cry out again, overwhelmed and open, and the vines tighten gently in response.
My second orgasm crashes through me like wildfire. I feel myself break apart and reform in her hands.
“Still with me?” she whispers, voice low and thick.
I nod, dazed. “More.”
She gives me everything.
Her mouth, her fingers, her body pressed over mine.
Every movement is slow and deliberate, punctuated by soft praise, by her hand cupping my cheek, her nose brushing mine.
She fucks me like she’s planting something.
Like she’s leaving seeds behind with every thrust. I come again, and again, until I’m limp and sobbing and smiling through it all.
I reach for her, tugging her closer with trembling hands.
She lets me guide her down, settling beside me, her hair a silken curtain around us.
I kiss her shoulder first, then lower … mapping her body with soft, reverent touch.
She shivers when I trail my tongue over the petals blooming along her hip, gasps when I find the place between her thighs already slick and pulsing.
“Let me,” I whisper.
Her only answer is a sigh, long and aching.
I worship her like she did to me … tongue slow, fingers firm, and full of wonder. She comes with her hands tangled in my hair, her head thrown back, and when she breaks, she says my name like it’s sacred.
Only then does she curl around me, letting me rest against her chest, and strokes my hair back from my damp forehead. My body trembles. She murmurs more grounding words, and I echo them softly. Our breathing syncs.
In the garden bed beside us, a final heartbloom unfurls.
It’s smaller than the others. White petals tipped in rose and violet. It grows right beneath our tangled bodies, pulsing gently with the aftershocks of our magic. I reach out and touch it.
“It’s us,” I whisper.
Solenne nods, lips brushing my temple. “It’s us.”
We stay there until the sunlight slants through the branches.
Wrapped in moss and petals and each other.
Rooted.
Blooming.
Home.