Chapter 12 #2
“I know what it is, and I don’t care.” Her words were an urgent whisper, her breath warm against his neck.
She was leaning into the energy, using it.
“This family has secrets we keep. We feel things. We know when the…otherness…is active.” She pulled at him, her hands insistent, and he resisted, his honor a final, stubborn wall.
“I don’t take advantage of women. What you feel—”
“I wanted you before this…this…whatever is happening,” she insisted, her gaze holding his.
“This uncontrollable ache is all mine.” She wasn't lying. He could feel it, a faint, distinct hum of her own desire that was separate from the overwhelming resonance of Flash and Lechuza’s.
It was a quieter note, but it was there, a steady, inviting thrum that had been there all along.
He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of her cheeks.
Her full mouth, her silky skin, the carnal want her body enlisted in him with a heightened, almost painful sense of need.
He was sure it was mostly the ghost of Flash’s desire, but the spark between them was undeniably real. “As long as you know—”
“No strings. I know,” she said, a flicker of a smile on her lips. “Doesn’t change a thing. You are duty and honor. It only makes you all the more potent.”
He gave in because he was lonely, aching with an emptiness so deep it felt like a part of his soul was missing.
He wondered if he was exchanging his desperate need to be useful for connection.
He was a man adrift in a sea of cosmic forces he had to understand.
This charge had to be expended, if he was going to be a fully functioning Visionary, a pressure building in him that demanded release.
It could be with a willing partner, or it could be with his hand in the cold solitude of his room. He chose the willing partner.
He lowered his head, and when their lips met, they clashed with a desperate, hungry crash.
It was a frantic attempt to find something solid and real in a world that was trying to take everything from them…
including this experience, this meaning.
They might just have met, but there was spark, and heat.
In a world Chaos built, this would be meaningless. He would never stop fighting that.
Those thoughts made him hungrier to find the woman who would change him, challenge him, work him over like Lechuza transformed Flash.
He backed her up against the stone wall of the house, his hips already thrusting, his dick throbbing, aching, seeking a grounding that only flesh and bone could provide.
The potency climbed…Flash and Lechuza, a wild, untamed current running beneath every person’s skin, but now it was channeled, given a purpose.
It was fuel, feeding the fire of their own private, desperate need.
Before he could stop himself, he was stripping her beneath her simple cotton dress, undoing his fly, pushing down his jeans, and thrusting into her.
He gritted his teeth against the intense pleasure as he absorbed her cry.
He was mindless, slamming into her without his usual slow cadence, savoring her.
The part of him he could never turn off analyzed.
Data point. Physical contact releases pressure.
Confirmed hypothesis. This is a release valve. A goddamn beautiful one.
A desperate, urgent need that had to be fulfilled, released.
He came so hard, he almost blacked out, and her body stiffened and pulsed against his dick until he thought he was going to go insane with the pleasure.
She gasped against his mouth, sobbing out his name, and still it wasn’t enough.
He got hard again inside her in a heartbeat.
Her startled eyes caressed him with a fire that roared from her to him.
He pulled out and took care of his clothes, then grabbed her hand.
He needed to be naked with her, feel everything, now. He dragged her to his room.
Her voice, soaked in desire, rasped out, “The mountain is singing today. It's been a long time since it's sung this loud. My mother says it only sings when the old blood is awake."
* * *
Her body had become a sensual prison, and her blood pulsed with the violence of her need.
She’d tried to hide it from Easy and Twister, but they were feeling something…
something she and Flash had ignited when their chakanas had touched, and now she was drowning in a sea of desire so vast and deep, swimming was completely futile.
What had they done?
Who was actually in control here?
It took sheer will to keep her hands still, to keep them from her body for blessed relief, her nipples, erect, aching, smoldering embers, her clit full, swollen, like a burning flame, scorching her until she had to bite her lip to keep from succumbing to the building throbbing pleasure.
“Lechuza,” Easy had rasped out, his hands gripping the back of the chair, his knuckles white as if he was going to burst into flame any moment, his body rigid, his eyes like heated sapphires.
“No,” she whispered. “We’ve done something, released something. I need him…now.”
She had barely registered them leaving as her body, the one she’d lived thirty years in took over from her as if she had no say in the matter.
Where is he?
I want to climb on him, take him, and watch his face while I have him over and over again. She moaned from the thought alone.
I need him.
She pressed her back to the stone wall of the alcove where the documents lay scattered, and the cold of the stone didn't register.
Her body had run past temperature into something else, a state where her skin was its own weather, generating heat that the mountain air outside couldn't have cooled if she'd been naked on the balcony in the snow.
That thought cracked through her like lightning, and she heard herself make a sound she didn't recognize, a small broken thing, half whimper and half growl.
She didn't know where Flash was, but that didn’t seem to matter. Every thought of him was like his hot palm on her skin, his searing wet mouth on her clit, her nipples, living flame in her hands. She was alone with her father's books and her ancestor's symbols, and the smell of him was everywhere.
She drew breath in through her nose, the warmth of his skin, the salt-mineral note of his sweat, and the trace of the soap from the shower they'd shared.
His scent cascaded over her like an orgasm, and she gasped, greedy for more, drawing breath in through her mouth and tasting him.
She closed her eyes and felt his mouth on hers, his hand on her neck, his thumb at the inside of her wrist, and his palm pressed flat against her chakana through the silk of her camisole.
Her body had cataloged every contact, demanding more, and there was none to give because he wasn't in the room.
She pressed her whole body to the cool stone of the alcove wall and tried to draw a single breath that didn't contain him and couldn't.
The chakana on her ribs blazed against the silk of her shirt.
Hot. A radiating heat that pulsed in time with her heartbeat, which was running too fast, the rhythm of a body that had decided to abandon the discipline she'd spent thirty years building.
She pressed her palm against the mark through the cloth, and the heat under her hand answered her.
Stop fighting him. Stop fighting yourself. There is no escape from this.
She felt the lines of the cross underneath, raised, almost lifting from her skin. Take him. He’s always been yours to take.
She tried to summon her training. The breath cycle she'd learned in the program. Four in, hold for seven, eight out. She got to four and her chest seized, and she couldn't hold, couldn't wait, couldn't slow the pulse of her own blood. The breath broke into a gasp. The gasp tasted like him.
A vision crashed through her without warning.