Page 62 of Florescentia

“I wouldn’t do that,” he warned.

I crawled close to him, lifting it between us. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer, but the vines that made up his body twitched and moved. I placed the flower in his lap, then leaned back against the second flower behind me. The wet stamen was warm, the nectar a pleasant scent like that of tropical fruit.

My head swam, all the colors were brighter, the glowing flora around us trailing in my vision. There was suddenly a lightness to my soul, unburdened or forgetful of earthly things that troubled me. The flower stamen behind me slipped between my legs, but too low to be inserted. It poked out through my thighs, the sap dripping down the front.

“This doesn’t have to be just my gain—consorting for luck is mutually beneficial.” I placed my hands on the roots, where his thighs should’ve been.

“Mutually pleasurable, you mean,” he corrected. “It’s more distracting than productive.”

“See?” I dragged a nail down his cheek, my lips brushing against the beast’s bark-like skin as I spoke. “You think more like a person than you think.”

I squeezed the fruiting flower in his lap, then collected the nectar before smearing it across his lips. You couldn’t see them, but you could feel them. I wished to taste them . . . and I did.

I pressed my lips to his. At first, his didn’t move.

I wiped my tongue along his bottom lip, collecting the sap. I smoothed my arms over his shoulders, letting my back bend as I sat down on the flower behind me. I dragged my nails over the tightly wound vines, wondering if they would unravel if he couldn’t keep up the illusion.

Then the poke of talons, his large hands covering my hips as he held them.

I let the flower stamen enter, just the tip at first. The liquid coating was viscous but slick. It took very little effort to enter, and I kept it slow. It was warm, the petals tickling my thighs in anticipation.

The vines along his chest began to move, to loosen. Then they opened, moving to the side to unravel, and the riblike vines held me, like they could close up and snatch me at any moment. Would he dare?

With one hand, he guided my hips down on the stamen, the semisoft form filling me, my knees spreading wider, as if that would make a difference. My legs were shaking, my fingers digging into the vines of his back. They quivered and moved, allowing me to take hold of them for stability.

I gasped, burying my face in his shoulder. “Do you always tremble like this at the sight of mere mortals?” I teased, gripping harder on the vines.

His other hand smoothed up my waist, a claw dragging, and the slight sting of a cut. His rough palm cupped my breast, squeezing. “Mortals are delicacies for those too massive to pass through tiny tears in our reality,” he said, his hand on my hip relocating to press flat on my tailbone. “Tempting enough to pleasure or to eat,” he hissed, his hand forcing my hips down.

The slick fruit slipped all the way in, burying itself. The petals closed around my legs and hips, for stability and hold.

“W-wait,” I gasped. There was an intense pressure, like swelling inside. It was like a full bladder. I shifted my hips, but the fruit was firmly placed. Then . . . a pulsing. I thought it was just me.

No, it was the flower.

Altair’s sharp nails dug into me. My entire body felt hot, my markings brighter than ever.

The pulsing inside was like a muscle spasm, or at least an attempt to simulate one. My gut twisted as I tried to deny myself the pleasure. I knew it would be a forced orgasm. As much as I held back, it wasn’t working. I cried out, gripping him as if his embrace would save me.

Then, like floodwaters on a low bridge, I collapsed. The gates were open, and I nearly blinded myself with my own light when I came. The orgasm was so strong it made me double over, my body curling as if it could stop. Pathetic whimpers, pleas sang from my throat.

But it wasn’t over, it didn’t stop.

“Please,” I cried, tears pricking my eyes, “please make it stop . . . It’s too much!”

There was a different kind of pulse, a strong, repeated twitch of the stamen. A new type of pressure built, rapidly. Then it spilled down my leg, and it didn’t stop. The flowerlike creatures repeated it all over again.

“It’s . . . it’s hot,” I complained. “Obscuria!” I cried.

But nothing happened.

There was a low, arrogant chuckle.

I stared at him, reclined and watching.

“Do something!” My throat hurt from the panic.