Chapter 29 #2
To his knees first, then lower—folding that massive frame down, his wings shifting behind him for balance, his hands finding my thighs.
The effort of it is visible in every muscle, the deliberate compression of something built for height and power making itself small for me, curving his spine, dipping his shoulders, until his mouth is level with mine.
His amber eyes are close. The heat of his breath touches my lips.
He doesn't kiss me.
His hands slide up the outside of my thighs.
Spread me. The roughness of his palms against my skin—callused, warm, the hands that held me for twenty-one days, now choosing to hold me differently.
His mouth finds the inside of my knee first—a press of warm lips against skin that twitches under the contact.
Then higher. The inside of my thigh, where the skin is thin and the withdrawal has left me so sensitive that his breath alone makes my hips jerk.
His mouth traces a line upward that makes my hands fist in the furs, my back arching, my body already answering before he's reached where he's going.
Then his mouth is on me.
Not careful. Not tentative. He knows my body—the full rut's worth of intelligence, every nerve known at my center—and he uses every bit of it.
His tongue is wide, hot, deliberate—finding the places his cock found from inside, reaching them from outside.
My hips jerk. I grab his horns—the base of his crown horns, thick, warm, ridged—because there is nothing else to hold onto. My back arches off the furs.
He doesn't stop.
He eats me out like he's making a point.
His tongue pressing flat against my clit, then circling, then pressing again.
His lips sealing over me, sucking gently, his tongue working inside the seal.
His hands grip my thighs, keeping me spread, keeping me exactly where he wants me.
I'm moaning. I'm loud. The sounds are coming out of me without permission, filling the aerie, going out into the canopy.
I come on his mouth. Hard. My walls clenching on nothing, my thighs clamping around his head, my hands pulling at his horns.
He doesn't stop. He works me through it—tongue relentless, mouth sealed, the vibration of a low growl running through his lips into my clit.
The orgasm doesn't end. It rolls, crests, rolls again.
His tail finds me next. The tip pressing in—slick with the same secretion, warm, tapered—sliding inside me while his mouth is still on my clit.
I cry out. The stretch of it, his tongue and his tail working me at once.
He fucks me with the tail in slow deliberate strokes, the tip curving to find the spot from inside while his mouth holds the pressure from outside.
I come again. Stacked on the first, the waves overlapping, my voice breaking on sounds that aren't words.
When I look down past his shoulders, I can see what this is doing to him. His cock is fully hard—thick, flushed, the prehensile muscle flexing in slow restless pulses. He is rock hard from tasting me. From making me come. Nobody touched him. He got there on his own.
That's going to live in my head for a long time. I can already feel it settling in, making itself comfortable, taking up space I don't have.
He stands. The full height again, rising from his knees, and the loincloth is long gone. His cock juts between us—hard, thick, the muscle curving toward me in slow hungry pulses.
He lifts me from the furs like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around his waist because that's where my legs go on him—I've learned the geometry of this, the way my body fits against his, the places I can hold and the places I can only cling to.
My back hits the aerie wall. The woven branches are rough against my shoulders, the cool morning air on my sweat-slicked skin. Below us the canopy drops away into the ruins—the green world spreading beneath the aerie like something out of a story nobody tells anymore.
He enters me standing. One thrust. Deep.
Gravity pulls me down onto him while his hands hold me up, and the angle is different from anything during the rut—sharper, deeper, all of him stretching inside me, pressing against every wall at once.
A sound leaves me. The sound goes out into the morning canopy, carrying, and I don't care.
He drives up into me. Hard, deliberate, the full power of his body behind every stroke.
My face is at his chest—that's where my face reaches on him, pressed against the smooth red skin over his sternum, his heartbeat hammering under my cheek.
The scale of it from this position, my legs around the waist of something that could break the aerie apart, his arms holding me like I'm nothing, his cock buried inside me while the canopy spreads below us and pale light through the vines turns gold through the gaps—my mind can't hold it.
My body doesn't care about holding it. My body is busy.
His wings spread behind him. The membrane catches the light, throwing shifting shadows across us both that move with every thrust. His tail wraps my waist for stability—the coil tight, possessive, keeping me in place while his hips drive.
The wet sounds of our bodies fill the aerie, drowning out the morning birds, the wind, the creak of the branches.
His grunts land against the crown of my head on every stroke.
I'm moaning. I'm loud. The sounds come out of me without permission, the way they did during the rut, except now they're mine. I'm choosing to make them.
I come over and over. The peaks stacking, each one rolling into the next.
His cock finds the spot on every stroke because he knows where it is—he's always known where it is, learned it from inside during the span of the rut, and now he's using every piece of that knowledge with the deliberate attention of a mind that was awake the entire time.
This is what he wanted to show me. This is what it looks like without the rut holding the leash.
He's awake. He's aware. He wants me. He's showing me by fucking me against the wall of his own aerie while the sun rises through the canopy below.
"Corvin—" My voice breaking on it. His name in my mouth while he's inside me, while my walls clench around him, while my fingers dig into the muscle of his shoulders.
His groan is wrecked. Something breaks behind it—not pain, not release, something closer to the sound a male makes when he hears his name from a woman he chose and wanted and waited for.
His hips slam up into me—one, two, three strokes that shake the aerie wall, that rattle the woven branches against my back.
He comes. His forehead drops against mine—the only position where our faces align, him folded down, his spine curved, the effort of that closeness visible in every muscle. His amber eyes are open. Watching my face the entire time.
The heat of his cum fills me. My body takes it. Holds it. The warmth spreading through me the way it always does—deep, settling, the feeling of something my body has decided is home whether my mind has caught up or not.
He holds me against the wall while the last pulses fade.
His cock still inside me, still twitching, the curl of him jerking against my walls.
His breath ragged against my lips. The light is full around us now—warm gold through the canopy gaps—and somewhere below a bird is singing the same two notes over and over, the sound rising up through the branches like it's trying to reach us.
"Again," I say.
He does it again.