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LYSANDER

I can’t believe he touched me like that.

I can’t believe I practically begged him to.

All I want is to see him again. To do that again. The wait feels infernally long.

I wake from a dreamless sleep at the crack of dawn.

Instead of my usual routine, I head to the aviary, taking big draws of the sharp morning air to clear away my racing thoughts.

Driven into furious action, I sweep the space, clean out all the snack bowls and refill them with fresh vegetables and fruit, tidy the crooked roosts, and check the eaves of the aviary for nests.

The pigeons hop about, disturbed by the audacity of my ruthless excavation.

“You’ll be glad later,” I tell them, shaking a leaf of lettuce at them.

Later, I sit on the roof and watch the males chase prospective partners, bobbing to show off their puffed up iridescent collars and fanning their tails out.

My lips twitch.

Is that what my dreams were trying to tell me?

Between my legs aches sweetly with memory, and I bury my face in my arms. It wasn’t just how it felt , though. It was the knowledge that the person who knelt between my legs was Ezra.

The sound of gravel crunching jolts me out of my daydream. I scramble to my feet. It’s barely afternoon, but that’s unmistakably Ezra’s truck. And here I am, dressed in my pajamas and covered in bird dust.

In a panic, I race down the stairs and throw myself into the shower. I don’t hear the door open, but when I leave the shower he’s lounging on my bed.

Inexplicably, I tense.

Ezra looks up and his eyes widen. “You—clothes,” he chokes.

Oh. Right. Nudity doesn’t bother me, but it didn’t escape my notice that he leaves his clothes on when we get into bed. I gathered humans are just more comfortable covered up, especially the way Ezra’s eyes drifted past me whenever he saw me in costume.

It only now occurs to me it may be about something other than comfort.

Heat curls in my gut. I hurriedly pull a shirt and pants out of my closet at random and tug them on. I’m distantly horrified by this sudden attack of carelessness, but the rest of me clamors for Ezra’s attention. His eyes are averted when I turn.

“You’re early.” My heart beats strangely fast.

“I thought we could get dinner,” he says. “Downstairs. It’s nothing special, but, you know. We kinda skipped a few steps, so a date is the least I could do.”

“Date?” I frown.

He sits up. “Well, it doesn’t have to be a date.”

“No, I, I don’t know what that means.” I flush.

“It’s just another name for spending time together. Getting to know each other.” A grin flickers over his face.

“Like friends do.”

He hesitates. “Exactly. Like friends.”

Oddly — selfishly — part of me doesn’t want to go downstairs to face the prying eyes and curious stares that’ll inevitably come.

A fertile fairy is cause for celebration.

It’s been so long since I had something to celebrate, I’m almost embarrassed about it.

Everyone at The Sanctum knows so much about me, my past, even my future, that I want to keep this piece to myself for a little while longer — a secret between me and Ezra.

Yet I also get a thrill out of the idea of someone seeing us and knowing .

“C’mon, I booked us a table on the back patio.” He winks, holding out a hand.

I smile, unable to help myself. “Alright.”

The staff patio is just under my window, overlooking a well-tended greenway. The air smells of pollen and new leaves. It’s still daylight, even if the shadows are already a little long for my comfort. This spot is part of The Sanctum and therefore under Syril’s protection.

Ezra pulls the rickety wooden chair out and gestures for me to sit. “Drinks and dinner are on me.” He gives me a crooked grin. “Okay, they’re on the house. But I’ll be your waiter.”

He disappears inside and returns with plates occupied by tiny portions of food, setting them down with a flourish.

“Larch is testing recipes for his side business,” Ezra explains. “I volunteered to taste and review. Actually, I volunteered you as well. We have to give him a full report.” He pulls out a pad of paper and a pen. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Larch’s cooking is transcendent, as always. The breeze brings cool air from the river to ruffle my hair, and Ezra’s eyes sparkle hypnotically in the patio lights. His easy smile calms my heartbeat.

“Flavors,” he prompts after every dish.

“Warm and nutty.” I frown, trying to access more words. “Sweet, but almost burnt. With… cinnamon?”

“Caramel,” he declares, pointing the pen at me. “That’s it. I don’t get cinnamon, though.”

I look away, embarrassed. “Oh, well.”

It’s not that the food tastes like cinnamon, it’s my traitorous body picking up on his scent.

“Texture,” he goes on.

“Crunchy. Crisp?” I sigh. This is hard.

“Yes!” He writes it down with a flourish. “You’re good at this, sweets.”

Warm pleasure makes me smile, and for a moment we lock eyes. His grin is blinding.

“You know, my idea of a culinary good time is a bag of doritos,” he admits when the plates are clear. He pushes up his sleeves and starts stacking them. “Larch is some kind of genius with veg, though.”

“Your arm.” I reach out instinctively. His arm is covered in fairy dust — my fairy dust! A possessive thrill runs through me.

“Oh.” His gaze is suddenly intent. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

“You don’t mind?”

His skin pebbles under my touch. “I sure don’t.”

I tug his sleeve down, hiding it away — protecting it , the little voice in my head whispers — and he gives me a quizzical look.

“I’m not ready to share yet,” I say sheepishly.

Ezra smiles. “That’s alright, sweets. It can be just between us.”

It’s only later, when we’re back in my bed, with his scent surrounding me and his solid weight against my back, that I find the courage to whisper, “Ezra.”

“Hmm?” His chest vibrates.

“Do friends do what we did in the red room?”

His arm tightens around me. “Friends can do anything together, including what we did. Is that what you want?”

In response, I bring his hand down. His breath hitches. My heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest, and the shock that goes through me when his fingers brush my parted slit through the silk of my pajamas tears a noise out of my throat.

“You’re wet again,” he whispers, the words barely brushing my ear.

“I’ve been like this all day.” I shudder.

His hand slips inside my shorts and his fingers stroke the mound where my hidden cock swells.

I hiss at the sudden pressure. It feels good — too good.

Once again there’s a strange feeling of newness , of opening, and his hand brushes something tender and bright.

I gasp. Overwhelmed, I squirm out of his arms.

I shove the covers off, revealing us both to the light. Ezra’s eyes glitter. I burn to touch him, to make him feel what I’m feeling. I run my hand over his firm chest, relishing how it rises and falls under my palm.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” His rough voice sends shivers through me.

“I want…” I trail off, my imagination failing me as inexperience leaves me floundering. But Ezra seems to understand what I need instinctively.

He grabs his shirt by the hem and drags it off, leaving himself almost bare to my eyes.

I love the way his body is different from mine, sturdy and broad where mine is slim, his waist thick and his thighs firm and covered in coarse hair.

I remember there’s a thick patch of hair between his legs, too, and I reach for his waistband. Then he’s naked in front of me.

Nervousness zips through my veins. The way he looks at me twists me up inside with need.

His cock is hard, pointing straight up toward his firm stomach. I bypass it completely and cup his soft, tender balls, and they twitch in my hand. He sucks in a breath.

“You like them, huh?”

“I like how different they are.” I heft them gently in my palm. Touching them makes me feel possessive of him.

I slide my palm up his shaft and he hisses.

This is different, too. His cock is thick from root to tip, with a musky smell that makes my mouth water.

It’s hard, but the skin is so soft and silky, not wet all over like mine.

I rub my thumb over the pearl of liquid beading up at the tip and spread it over his pink head, and he groans, his stomach flexing.

He stays still as I touch him, holding back. With all his broad strength on display, his restraint excites me. My chest swells with pressure as I stroke him up and down, mimicking the way he thrust into my hand, and watch him twitch and slowly turn red all down his chest.

“Lys,” he rasps.

His chest heaves. I pause, but nothing else is forthcoming. When I stroke him again his head tips back and he moans, low and long. The noise ignites me. Emboldened, I sink to my elbows and take his whole tip into my mouth at once.

He lets out a loud, shocked noise. His cock jerks upward, briefly filling my mouth.

I forget that I’m exploring and fall on him ravenously, sliding my lips down his length until the salty taste of his fluids fills my throat.

Ezra tries to pull his hips back, but I grip them with possessive hunger. My body tingles.

He chokes on a moan, fingers curling around my jaw. “Your cock — touch it, Lysander. Please.”

With one hand, I shove my pajama shorts down and cup my new appendage. That too-bright sensation strikes me again, but this time, with my mouth around Ezra and his voice in my ears, the feeling makes my knees shake.

My hand glides easily over the wet length. It’s almost painful at first, until Ezra’s cock jerks up into my throat and he moans, and sparks explode. A gasp bursts out of my nose and I forget what I’m doing, my head scrambled.

Ezra strokes my jaw with his thumb. “Can you do both? Stroke my cock with your mouth — ahhh, fuck, that’s good.” I’m eager to please. “And touch yourself at the same time. Just like that. Oh my god, you’re doing so good, baby —”

He groans again, loudly. Bitterness and salt bursts over my tongue.

I swallow roughly as more and more spills from him.

His grip tightens in my hair, holding me in place so I have no choice but to drink him down.

But I don’t want to pull away. I want the gift he’s giving me, to make him fly like I’m flying.

My eyes drift shut and my thoughts quiet. There’s nothing but Ezra, in me and around me.

Then his hands are on my shoulders, dragging me up. I swallow the essence of him that’s still on my tongue. He drags me on top of him and his hand dives between us, and bright, sparkling pleasure erupts between my legs.

“Oh!” I convulse. It’s so much better than my own hand, especially when Ezra grips the back of my neck and fits my mouth to his, his tongue sliding inside. I’m on fire, erupting molten hot seed over his fist. His erratic breath makes me want to rub my whole body all over him.

“Fuck, you’re so sensitive,” he groans. His hand twists and another shock runs up my spine. I arch in surprise and cry out. “Think I can make you come again.”

“I’m — I can’t —” I gasp, squeezing wherever I’m touching him.

He stops, breathing heavily. “Let me look, sweets.” I look. His broad hand cups the whole base of my cock, fingers buried out of sight in my slit below. His knuckles are covered in milky seed. My cock shivers in his grasp. “You’re amazing. Rub on me, just like this.”

Face burning, I try to do as he says. The pulse of pleasure makes me gasp hotly. I forget how to hold myself up.

“Yes,” he hisses, curling an arm around me tightly. “That’s it. Fuck. Take what you need.”

My hips jerk unsteadily, chasing that feeling. His mouth latches onto mine again and I crest over a second peak in his arms, shuddering and exploding as he invades me with his tongue and his fingers lash my sensitive folds.

Afterward, I slump onto his chest.

“Can we have another date?” I mumble, breathless.

He grips me tighter. “Date or no date, just say the word and I’m there.”

“Which word?” I press.

He chuckles. “Pick one.”

Bear and I have safe words — red, yellow, and green. They’re imperative when he’s hanging me from the ceiling with little more than a few ropes. But what’s a word that means Please touch me and never stop ?

I don’t have to think long. “More.”

“Okay, sweets. When you say more, I’ll give you more.”

I push myself up. His words are light, but seriousness underscores them. “You can tell me no, you know.”

Bear explained that, too — a safe word is for both people. And sometimes, the best safe word is ‘no’.

Ezra’s gaze is intent. “But I won’t. I’ll always say yes.”

I bury my face in his neck and breathe in his calming scent to slow my galloping pulse.

I want more. It’s like I can’t stop wanting more. I become addicted to his touch, his body, so different from mine, and the way his dark eyes watch me the whole time. He stares like he’s cataloging every moment.

I do the same.

On the nights Ezra turns my brain into nothing more than sparkling fairy dust with his hands and mouth, I sleep like a stone. I’m finally alive after so long just surviving. I’m so pleasant that even Lilian smiles shyly when we pass in the hall.

Come Sunday I’m almost buzzing with excitement for the show.

It’s going to be different with Ezra watching.

Of course, he’s seen the show before, but not since this new thing started.

The vain part of me preens at the thought of showing off for him — and later, hearing how much he liked it while he holds me.

In the dressing room, my usual calm focus is nowhere to be found. Bear will be annoyed. I peer at myself in the mirror and find a flushed, wide-eyed stranger staring back. My skin tingles in anticipation.

Behind the stage, I fidget impatiently as we’re announced.

“Focus, fairy,” Bear rumbles behind me.

I take a deep breath. “Sorry.”

He leans in. I shift away immediately, worried he’ll brush my skin by accident, but he puts a gloved hand on my shoulder and holds me in place. He bends over me and his nostrils flare.

“You smell fertile.”

Heat rises to my cheeks. “I — well, I am.”

He’s a stoneskin, so why does he care?

Bear lets go of me with a growl. “We have to cancel the show. I can’t touch you if you’re fertile, even with gloves — your magic is too potent.”