Page 27

Twenty-Seven

S he writhed in the air, breathless, trembling, utterly helpless in the cocoon of his limbs. The smooth press of his tentacles stroked her with devastating precision—like he knew her better than she knew herself. Every motion was careful, slow, exacting… but devastatingly effective.

Her body was no longer hers. It was his instrument now.

And he played it masterfully.

She could barely keep her eyes open, but when she managed, she saw him—still fully clothed, still wrapped in that regal ensemble of black and silver silks, his shoulders straight, his mask discarded, those glowing blue markings on his skin pulsing brighter with every sound she made.

And the strangest thing happened.

Slits opened near the sides of his neck—gills. They flared open softly, and she felt it—he was inhaling her.

Not through his nose. Not through his mouth.

Through those strange, delicate ridges on his neck, he was drinking in her scent like it was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever experienced. His eyes half-closed, and his grip on her tightened just slightly, reverently.

A fresh wave of arousal tore through her.

God. She wanted to see him. All of him.

She wanted him naked, to see what he truly was beneath the silk and mystery. But her lips wouldn’t form the words. Her throat could only gasp. Moan. Whisper broken syllables.

And he?—

He responded like he heard every unspoken thought.

The tentacle between her legs moved with more certainty now, curling and pressing against the most sensitive part of her, applying just the right pressure, the right rhythm. Another coiled tightly around her thighs, parting her gently, holding her open for him.

Her hands, free only in the sense that they were lifted above her head, trembled. Her entire body quaked as pleasure built, molten and hot, deep in her core. Her skin was flushed, slick with sweat, her hair clinging to her neck.

And all the while, he said nothing.

Only his glowing eyes met hers. Only the sound of his breath through his gills. Only the slow, steady, precise movements of his tentacles—relentless in their worship.

She reached the edge fast.

Faster than she’d ever imagined.

And when he gave a subtle, final stroke—pressing perfectly, holding her just right—she shattered.

Came apart in his arms.

Cried out his name without realizing she knew it.

Her body spasmed, suspended in the air, powerless, undone. And he held her there, firmly, protectively, until the last tremor faded.

Only then did he speak, voice low, thick with something primal.

“I want to see your face when you look at me like that again.”

Her heart pounded. She blinked. Tears sprang to her eyes—not from sadness. From the intensity. From the raw, overwhelming everything.

And she whispered, “Then take off your clothes.”