Page 145 of The Fake Divination Offense
Like he’s having the same thoughts, a smile glides across Bel’s face, his lip gloss flashing in the moonlight from the living room’s massive windows that barely illuminate the entryway. His outfit’s been driving me wild—black crocheted sleeves connect across his collarbone, leaving most of his chest bare, showing defined planes of rose-gold skin, peaked nipples, and a thick silver belly chain looped under his navel. His tail’s tucked away, and baggy black pants hang excruciatingly low on his hips.
“All night,” I start, “all night, I kept envisioning yanking those pants down and making you sit on my lap in a way that’d steal headlines from the way we already stole headlines today.”
He smirks. “Oh yeah? Why didn’t you?”
I drop to my knees in front of him. His breath cuts out in a gush.
“Because,” I say, crawling toward him across the marble floor. “While everyone better know who you belong to, only I get to see what you look like when I push into you.”
The softest, most grasping whimper flutters in his throat.
He backs up until his spine hits the guestroom door. In this position, on my hands and knees, my head’s level with his chest; I duck so I can bury my face against his belly, right over that chain.
I take it in my teeth and tug gently.
He still smells like apples. Faint, but it’s there. Beneath it, hesmells likehim, like soap and the fresh, clean scent of his skin. The aroma has a snarl building in me, something feral that’s been brewing since the pearl broke and alerted me that he was gone.
And suddenly, everything I’ve been compartmentalizing—he was taken from me; he got hurt; he almostdied—avalanches over me, a frigid, breath-stealing assault.
Tears sting my eyes. “They took you,” I say into his skin. It’s barely sound, a vibration if anything.
But Bel hears. He strokes his fingers through my hair. “You saved me.”
I seize his hips, yanking him up the wall so I can drop hard, open-mouthed kisses in a band across his waist. He squeals and scrambles at my head for balance, those squeals breaking into moans as I scrape my teeth over his sharp hip bones, more consumption than kiss.
His hips thrust and his torso arches, that rhythmic, sexy-as-fuck dance for me.
“Orok,” he pants. “Want you. Please. N-need you.”
Gods, we both need it. Both need this coming together—it’s falling out of him in pleas; it’s breaking out of me in hunger.
“Shh.” I look up at him, supplicant and devoted. “I got you, sweetheart. Let me worship you.”
He whimpers and presses back into the wall, a tremor rolling across his skin as he fights not to squirm.
I lower him long enough to hook my fingers in his pants and peel them and his boxers off, lifting first one leg, then the other to get rid of his shoes, too. His tail thwacks against the floor, and he’s hard and leaking already, his body shivering despite the heat waving off us both; it’s the energy of the day releasing, I know. I’m shivering, too, hands shaking as I skate my fingers up his bare legs, his muscles wound and distinct in his lean thighs.
Ravenousness burns in the pit of my stomach, my throat bobbing on a grating swallow. I’m hit with a myriad of wants so potent I get dizzy—want to wrap him in my arms, hold him for days; want to impale him on my cock so our bodies meld; want to devour him,feel every part of him connect with every part of me until I can truly accept that he’ssafenow. He’s okay.
He got taken from me.
I heft him in my arms again, bracing him on the wall so his cock is level with my face, so I can be here on my knees for him. His tail twitches and wraps around my thigh; I love that outward sign of his unraveling. Want stripes of his bruises all over my legs.
I pull his hard length into my mouth and he croons, belly rippling, one hand going up to grip the guestroom door. “Orok, yes, yes, oh my gods—”
My cheeks hollow and I suck, hard, constricting the pressure around his dick and bobbing my head in a punishing rhythm. The hunger, the want, the fear and sorrow and grief are all driving me now; I’m kerosene-saturated and aflame.
Need him to come. Need him to feel good. Need him to fall apart in my mouth so I can taste him and hear those noises, see that dance.
He’s okay. He’s safe, he’s okay.
Bel cants into me, aborted thrusts that twist into rolls. That chain, his lip gloss; he catches and sparks in the low moonlight, the barest wisp of his usual solar flare. It burns me the same, a caustic natural disaster I greedily let mark me. Cut me open in a decade, two, and there’ll be a ring carved into my soul from him.
I suck harder, running my tongue around his length. Bel’s hips jerk and spasm, mouth dropping open, throat elongating as he comes with a frantic wail. That sound shudders through me, stroking over my raw nerve endings like his fingertips gliding through my hair, calming, reassuring.
I ease him out of my mouth, keep hold of him as I climb his body with kisses on his stomach, his pecs, his collarbone, his jaw. He hangs in my arms, sated and limp, letting me truly worship him now, letting me drink my fill.
“So good for me,” I whisper into his temple. “Giving yourself to me. Dancing for me. You’re perfect.”
