Chapter 37 #2
She pressed her forehead to his, tears spilling freely now, but they were shining, joyful tears.
“And I want you too. Not as a ritual, not because of the Grove Core, not because of anyone’s god.
I want you. Just you. The one who discombobulates me and makes me giddy and—” her voice cracked again, softer, aching—“the one who makes me feel like I’m finally home. ”
He didn't say anything more. He simply kissed her again, a kiss that was soft and deep and held the unspoken promise of everything he had just laid bare. His arms wrapped around her, strong and steady, pulling her flush against him until the world outside faded into a distant, unimportant shadow.
From the corner of the room, a faint, indignant meow broke the quiet.
Goldie, still in the middle of an amazing kiss, sent an annoyed thought through her still-new familiar bond.
Go chase some mice, you two. Give a girl some privacy.
She felt Maeve’s sniff of disdain like a warm breeze against her temple. Fine. But only because you fed us the good stuff earlier.
Tell the plant-man I like my ears massaged, Oberon chimed in. He should remember that for next time. Also, his ankles taste nice.
Goldie laughed into Splice’s mouth, the sound bright and a little wet with tears. Splice’s hand tightened at the small of her back, and even Maeve paused mid-purr as if to approve. For one ridiculous, perfect second the apartment was exactly what it should be: messy, loud, and entirely theirs.
She felt her cats’ presence retreat, padding off into whatever hidden corners the apartment magicked up for them, leaving her alone with him.
The kisses softened, slowing into something deeper, more reverent. They leaned into each other, every brush of lips a question, every answering sigh a revelation. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, tender as sunlight through leaves.
“You’re extraordinary,” he murmured against her mouth. “Every part of you. Spark and splendor.”
Her heart gave a fierce, aching flutter. “You’re the one who’s extraordinary. Gods, Splice, you’re everything I didn’t know I needed.”
Without a word, Splice lifted her into his arms, holding her close with a steadiness that left her breathless. His stride was sure, unhurried, their lips and breaths mingling in a seamless, silent conversation as he carried her toward the bedroom.
He laid her gently on the bed, as if placing something precious beyond measure. For a long moment he didn’t move, only knelt beside her, eyes fixed as though committing her to memory.
His hands trembled with awe when he reached for her. He didn’t tug or tear; instead, he worked each button loose with deliberate care. The fabric parted, falling aside to frame the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts.
“You are…” His voice rasped, breaking off. He shook his head, as if no words could match what he saw when he looked at her.
Something in his reverence emboldened her. Goldie sat up just enough to pull the dress the rest of the way off, drawing it over her head in one fluid motion and tossing it aside. She met his gaze as she did, watching him watch her, his eyes tracing every curve like a man discovering a masterpiece.
He drew in a breath that shuddered through him, then reached for the lace at her hips.
His fingers were gentle as he eased the fabric down, his touch singing over her bare skin.
Goldie closed her eyes, a soft hum of pleasure rising in her throat.
It was so very different from the raw, consuming passion of the ritual downstairs, but no less wonderful.
There was no urgent demand in him, only a quiet, unhurried curiosity, as though each new inch was a revelation he meant to savor.
She opened her eyes again as he shed his clothes.
In the soft glow of her bedroom, he was beautiful: all lean lines and strange, perfect geometry, a myth made real.
She opened her arms in silent invitation, and he joined her on the bed, their bodies settling together with quiet grace, a perfect fit.
Goldie’s hands moved slowly, reverently, exploring every plane of him. She traced the plane of his jaw, the curve behind his ear, the steady pulse at his throat. He mirrored her, his fingers gliding with cautious wonder, cool against her heat.
“What is this?” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “What does it feel like for you… for the I?”
His eyes fluttered closed, a smile ghosting across his face, pure discovery shining there. “It feels like the earth waking after a long rain.”
Her mouth found his collarbone, trailing feather-light kisses before a teasing lick drew a sharp inhale from him. “Tell me more,” she breathed, fingertips tracing the arch of his shoulder.
"It’s like… sap rising. It’s the moment before a storm, and the quiet after.” He opened his eyes, meeting hers with a fierce, earnest light. “Before, sensation was data. Information to be processed. But this… is feeling."
A soft laugh escaped her, a warm whisper against his skin. "You sound like you're discovering poetry."
"Perhaps I am," he replied, his gaze unwavering.
Their hands found each other in the space between them, fingers lacing together in a silent, sacred promise.
"I want to discover all of you," Goldie whispered, her lips brushing against his again.
He captured her mouth in a slow, sure kiss that spoke of a tenderness deeper than any ritual, a promise more binding than any spell. "And I want to savor every moment."
The kisses deepened, a slow, intoxicating conversation of lips and breath.
Emboldened by the tenderness threading between them, Goldie let her hand wander downward, gliding over the solid plane of his chest, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen, before slipping into the heated space between their bodies.
Her fingers closed around his cock.
A sharp hiss broke from his lips, his eyes falling shut as though the sensation undid him at the roots.
For a heartbeat he went utterly still, his entire frame drawn taut, a statue carved from startled wonder.
He was hot and hard in her palm, the weight and texture achingly familiar yet amazingly new in this hushed, reverent moment.
She stroked him slowly, deliberately, her thumb circling over the velvety crown. His hips betrayed him with a small, helpless jerk, the vines at his sides twitching with pleasure.
“And what does this feel like?” she whispered, her voice a low hum against his skin. “Tell me what you feel.”
For a moment, nothing. Then, a single, dark vine, no thicker than her finger, slid from his waist, curling hesitantly around her wrist.
“It’s…” His breath caught. “Like a bud just before it bursts open. Everything in me strains towards you.”
Another vine unfurled, this one from his shoulder, and drifted down the curve of her spine, its touch as delicate as a falling leaf. She shivered into the caress as she continued stroking him in a steady rhythm.
The head of his cock slicked under her palm, and the sharp hitch of his breath told her he was teetering on the edge. She tightened her grip, savoring the hot, silken slide until his hand came down, covering hers with quiet finality.
“Not in your hand,” he murmured, voice a low thrum against her ear. Slowly, he guided her hand away and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “And certainly not yet.”
Before she could process his sweet denial, the vine at her back wrapped fully around her waist, a firm but gentle anchor.
Another slithered from his opposite shoulder and coiled around her other wrist. One brushed against the nape of her neck, sending a shiver darting down her spine.
Another, broader and heavier, slid between her thighs.
She whimpered, hips rocking forward instinctively, greedy for more.
Splice groaned into her hair, the sound raw, a man trying to hold onto his sanity while offering up his soul. “Gods, Goldie, you are—” His voice fractured as another vine, delicate as a fern frond, traced the shell of her ear and the sensitive skin just behind it.
“Splice,” she breathed, voice cracking. Her free hand clutched at his shoulder, nails biting into the bark-like texture of his skin.
The vine at her thighs shifted, rolling with an obscene slowness that made her gasp, and slid inside her.
Goldie moaned, a raw sound that was swallowed by his mouth crashing down on hers.
He kissed her with the furious hunger of a starving man.
The sensation of being filled by him, by this impossible, living part of him, was exquisite agony.
Splice groaned against her lips, the sound reverent and ragged.
“Like roots finding water after a drought,” he breathed. “Like the world drawing itself closer, tighter, until there’s nothing left but you.”
Her mind fractured. There was no thought, only feeling. Pleasure built into a searing, unbearable peak. Her head fell back, hair spilling behind her as a cry tore from her throat, pure and profound, as she shattered.
Her body convulsed around his vine, inner muscles clenching and milking it in violent, ecstatic waves.
His name was a sacrament on her lips, repeated over and over as the world dissolved into light and heat and the scent of damp soil.
The vines held her fast, a living cradle supporting her through the aftershocks, their gentle pressure a promise that he would not let her fall.
He pressed his forehead to hers, his voice a broken groan. “You are life itself.”
As the last echoes of her orgasm shivered through her, he withdrew his vine. The motion was an agonizing, reverent retreat that left her hollow and trembling, her body strung tight with fresh need.
“You shatter for me,” Splice growled, his voice thick. “So open. So alive.”