Chapter 27 #2
It makes his breeches tighter and tighter, enough that he shifts his hips away so Ren won’t feel it. Bass holds his tongue between his teeth painfully, but not as painful as the ache running through him.
His hands itch for more. To feel more. And when Ren sighs against his mouth, catching her breath, he needs to hear more of it. He needs to make her sound like that again—it’s such a pretty sound. It drives him insane. Gods, fuck.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, voice ragged. He needs to.
Ren inhales, breath shuttering. “You’re already touching me,” she whispers.
In defeat, Basuin’s head falls to the crook of her neck, spine bent to reach. His mouth is so close to her neck that his breath ghosts over her skin where water beads along her olive pulse point.
“But can I touch you, Ren,” he says, not a question, voice a hum vibrating from his chest.
He can’t see her face, but he hears the sharp inhale whistling through her nose. The way her body stiffens, locks up, enough that Basuin would pull away if she didn’t have such a clutch on him. The fire quiets at her hesitance and a shame sets in that should’ve stopped him sooner than now.
But Ren doesn’t let go, and her voice is a tremble of leaves in the wind when she says, “Yes.” Then, “Please,” in a watery beg he can’t say no to.
Basuin’s hands slide down Ren’s body, following the deadly curve of her, thumb brushing over the soft skin of her breast, until both palms swallow her hips.
He walks her backward, the shift of the lake around his legs heavy, mouth leaving kisses where he can.
Her neck, where her jaw connects below her ear, her temple—anywhere.
Ren’s hand finds the leather tie in his hair and pulls it until it unravels, letting his locks free for her fingers to tangle in.
At the edge of the lake, Basuin finds a rock with the flattest incline and wades Ren toward it.
He steadies his hold on her hips and lifts her out of the water to sit on the precipice.
Ren’s legs part for him to slot between, and it takes everything for Basuin to focus on her eyes as his breeches start to suffocate him.
His hands fall first to her thighs—he hopes they aren’t too rough.
Her skin is silk and spun sugar under his calloused palms and he’s careful to keep his touch light.
But Ren makes no protest, her chest rising and falling as she watches him.
Her nipples, dusky pink contrasted against her flaxen skin, are peaked from the cold air or the hot arousal he hopes is coursing through her the way it sears him.
Slowly, Bass trails his fingers down to Ren’s knees, then to caress her calves, then all the way until he brushes his touch over her delicate ankles. And when he drags back up her legs, Ren shivers. He can make her do that again. Again.
So he moves to lay a kiss on her knee, and then to her thigh, eyes catching her dark twilight gaze.
Her stomach is taut and scarless. Then, a dark patch of curly hair above the apex of her pelvis.
And when Basuin finally lets himself look—because gods help him, he’s going straight to the Blacksalt Sea after he brings Ren to her peak—Ren’s core glistens with evidence of the same need making him hard and heavy.
She’s so beautiful. She’s divinity in true form. And he’ll pray. Sa-cha help him, Basuin will pray at her feet like this and worship her.
One more kiss to her inner thigh, close enough to feel her heat. “Can I?” he asks one more time.
Ren nods, her hand running through his hair. “Please, Bass.”
His thumb swipes over the seam of her, a dribble of her honey collecting on his skin. Ren rolls her hips, the smallest, faintest gasp leaving her at his simple touch. It heats him, makes him crazy, makes his eyes flick up to hers as he tastes her.
And it isn’t enough, this hint of her. It isn’t enough.
Without another thought, Basuin shoulders between her legs until her thighs surround him, locking his arms around her hips.
His breath ghosts along her core, a last prayer for salvation after this is over, and then his mouth is upon Ren—enveloping her, tongue parting the valley of her lips and delving into her slick center, hot with need.
Ren makes a keening sound that calls for him, breathless as she falls back upon the rock.
Strands of her wet hair make a halo around the crown of her skull and Basuin tightens his grip on her thighs to bring her closer.
His tongue flattens on her point of pleasure, licking a path through her until it’s well-traveled.
Ren’s fingers tighten in his hair, twisting, only driving him forward for more as he groans into her skin.
“Bass!” Ren chants his name in gasps and moans that make him want to grind his hips into something just to relieve the pressure.
He aches, and he’ll do anything to rid Ren of her ache and make her say his name like that again and again.
Ren grinds her core against his mouth. She trembles under his hold.
She clenches around nothing as her hand seizes his hair because he doesn’t stop.
His mouth does not stop and will not stop—the taste of her is addicting, and Ren makes such pretty sounds.
He is wicked. He’s a sinner. There is no wolf-man here. It’s just Basuin, worshipping his god until she will pray his name instead. And she does.
“Bass—Bass, please—” she pants, so pretty. So beautiful.
He wants to keep her here, riding this line, so she’ll keep saying his name like this. But he wants to push her off that edge, to catch her as she falls, to hear how else she’ll say his name. He wants to say, Please what? Please what? until she unravels beneath him.
Her thighs squeeze around him, nails turning to talons in his skin as she winds her hips over his mouth and on his tongue.
He doesn’t want it to end, the taste of her.
He’ll lick his fingers of her essence every single moment from now.
But he wants to break her. See what Ren looks like as she shatters.
And so he does.
Basuin curls his fingers in the soft flesh of her hips as his lips envelop her pleasure point. A noise so stricken, so wanton, so lovely, tears itself from Ren’s mouth like a howl that makes his blood run hot and his pulse quicken.
He pulls every bit from her that he can. Drinks her like the wine of the gods. Molten lava, eternal youth, blood of Sa-cha. He licks the magic from her skin, paints the apex of her thighs with her own makings. As quickly as she begins, she ends.
When Basuin pulls away from her core, Ren is slick to the rock, chest heaving from exertion.
He loves it. He loves the sheen of sweat covering her skin, the glow of his red magic left behind.
The way her eyes are soft amber, clouded by pleasure.
He loves the brokenness of her, the beauty in her undoing.
He loves it—Ren, like this.