21. “Jungle Toxins” #2
I wrap my arms around myself, thinking of the mating chamber.
Of sleeping with Rythar, in the same bed.
“On New Terra, sex was never like this. Like what I think you mean. It was always so… rushed. Clinical. Even when it was good, it was just a way to… get it over with. And not miss an opportunity.”
“Did you have a mate?” he asks, heavy brow drawing down. “Your identity did not indicate a bond.”
I shake my head. “No. It wasn’t like that. We tried for children with a designated man, or tried quickly with someone we liked—if we could get a moment.”
He looks surprised, then nods. “I may understand your confusion about Xytheos now. On New Terra, those were temporary arrangements.”
It feels strange to explain it to him, and stranger still to hear him try to make sense of it in Xythean terms. I fumble, trying to explain why it made sense on New Terra.
“The odds of conception were always poor, so we tried often, if it was around the right time. It was my duty to the human race. Every New Terran’s duty.
Xytheos is just so different. You’re asking me to jump into something and I don’t even understand what it really is. ”
He studies me. “I was engineered to protect my mate,” he says quietly.
“To feed her. To warm her. To ensure her safety and care.” His thumb presses into my jaw, not unkindly.
“Yet it is not enough. You are still braced. You are ready to endure me. Not to choose me. What is it you wish for now, Elena?”
I look away. I may not understand Xytheos, but choosing him feels irreversible. “I don’t know what I wish for. I’ve never had the chance.”
Rythar leans in, mouth at my ear. “Now you do.”
I shiver—not from the cold.
He picks me up and sets me on the edge of the bath, water streaming off my legs. He stays in the pool, close to me. His hands are soft on my skin. He kisses my neck, my collarbone, the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammers.
My body aches for him, but my brain is a mess of alarms and regret.
I whisper, “Why are you letting me choose?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He touches my face, fingers gently tracing my cheekbones. “Because it is right,” he says. “Because I will not build a life on a wife who fears my touch. No matter what the Stone demands of me. Xytheos is harsh enough on its own.”
So far, Xytheos has given me shelter, food, health, and protection—in exchange for my freedom and humanity. Now he hands some of it back to me.
I pull his head down, meet his lips with mine, lose myself as he returns the kiss.
He breaks the kiss and breathes deeply. Then he grabs a towel with his long reach and lays it behind me.
He lowers me onto it, gently cradling me.
Rythar kisses me everywhere as my heart races.
His lips are gentle but insistent against my skin.
I surrender to the heat of his touch. He trails kisses across my collarbone and down toward my breasts, circling each nipple as I arch into him, seeking more contact.
He takes his time exploring my body, teasing and licking until I’m panting for air.
He kneels between my thighs, kissing the inside of my knees, the softest part of my thigh. His tongue is hot, passing over the inner fold of my upper thigh, and when he finally reaches the top of my slit, I gasp.
The way he uses his mouth is nothing like anyone on New Terra. He traces his tongue in circles around my entrance. The hot, wet feeling makes me gasp again. He reads my body, every twitch and moan mapping out a new approach. He is relentless, and I don’t want him to stop.
The mate bond pulls strongly, and I lose track of everything but the sensation of his mouth on my most intimate places.
It's not just physical. It's like a feedback loop—the more I want, the more he gives, and the more I give, the more he wants.
My legs wrap around his neck as the pleasure becomes irresistible.
He makes a sound against me, something between a groan and a laugh, and pulls me tighter.
The tension builds steadily inside until finally, I come hard, blinding, the world going white at the edges.
He doesn’t stop until I’m sobbing, begging, spent.
I don’t know what to do now, but he makes it simple.
He gathers me off the edge and back into the pool, cradling my body against him, his skin hot and wet against mine.
The beat of his heart under my cheek is steady and relentless. The mate bond hums between us.
If I let myself, I could sink into him, fuck him for a hundred years and never stop.
Instead, I stare at the stone ceiling, trying to piece together what I am now. My skin is flushed, every nerve in my thighs still firing. On New Terra, sex was a means to an end. Here, it’s the end itself.
It’s my end.
I keep waiting for him to shift—to close the circle in a way I recognize. My body stays open and aching. His cock is hard on my belly but he doesn’t move to take more.
He runs his fingers gently through my hair. “You are thinking,” he says. He kisses my temple. “That should have stopped you from thinking. Do you want me to try again?”
I try to laugh, but my voice is raw. “What you did felt incredible, but I don’t…” I trail off, unsure how to explain it.
He nuzzles my neck. “You don’t what?”
“I guess… I don’t know what the endpoint is here. There’s no sense that I’ve fulfilled the obligation.”
He grunts a sound of dismissal. “I gave you a gift. One I will give you as often as you will allow. I enjoy your pleasure. There is no obligation.”
I lie against him, heart hammering, wondering if I could ever think of it that way.
My body knows what comes next. On New Terra, sex is where the woman opens her legs and the man finishes and you both get dressed and go back to work.
I have done this part so many times it is reflex.
I spread my thighs, let him settle between them.
The bride mark on my finger is lit. I reach down, grip his cock, line it up against my slit. I’m so wet he would slide in easily.
He groans, the sound vibrating through both our chests.
The head nudges against my slit, but he doesn’t push in.
He braces. Every muscle in his arms locks, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables. His eyes close, and when they open, the gold is gone. It’s just black pupils rimmed in fire. A tremor runs through his thighs where they press against mine.
"Not yet," he grits out. His jaw works. His hands shake where they grip my hips. He exhales through his teeth the way I've seen wounded men breathe on New Terra.
I lean against his chest. “Why not?”