Born of Ashes

She stood on the rim of a canyon ready to leap off into the abyss, hopefully to fly.

He rubbed her back, which of course reminded her of her itchy wing-locks. As though reading her mind, Jean-Pierre began at the upper right and started to scratch at just the right pressure. She trembled then relaxed, settling more deeply against his chest, her soul filling with wonder.

Her mind seemed to open and expand right then and there, in the foyer of Jean-Pierre’s house, next to a piano they both knew how to play, held in the arms of the man she loved, having the man who loved her in every corner of his being giving her wing-locks some much-needed relief.

When he’d gone over each lock and then just held her once more, when he seemed content just to hold her, when he didn’t launch into all the reasons she should complete the breh-hedden, and even when her heart began to pound in her chest and throat, she whispered, “Yes.”

His body stilled. He didn’t draw a breath for a moment.

“Yes,” she said more loudly. And finally peace flowed through her, a warm wonderful river of ease that told her she was doing the right thing, the best thing, the most necessary thing for herself and for Jean-Pierre.

He pulled back from her a little so that he could look into her eyes. He frowned. “Are you sure? I do not want you to feel the smallest pressure. This must be your decision and your desire. Truly your desire.”

She nodded. “I know.” Then she smiled. “I admit this has been a lot to get used to. But I’m ready. Scared, but I’m ready. I want to know you in this way as well, my mind, my body, my blood.

“When Rith died, just a few hours ago, that part of my life ended. Oh, I know that I will work with the rehab center for a long time to come, and I’ll continue on at Militia HQ, working to identify blood slave facilities, but I can feel that this is a new beginning, that I, that we, are meant to accomplish more, perhaps have always been destined to accomplish more together.”

She shook her head. “But no, I don’t feel pressured anymore. I feel—” She paused and put a hand to her chest. “—I feel light and joyous. I know now that I belong here with you and I want to be your breh as I want you to be mine.”

“So, it is the breh-hedden.”

“Yes.”

The breh-hedden always reveals the butterfly.

—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth

Chapter 23

Jean-Pierre did not move for a long time. He held Fiona in his arms, unable to release her, or to suggest that they retire to his bedroom, or anything. Peace held him immobile, something he had not felt in a very long time, perhaps not since well before the revolution.

He held the moment, as he held Fiona, savoring, wishing that he could make time stop, forever. His breathing was deep, very deep, breaths that seemed to reach into the earth and pull every good thing back up into his body.

He loved Fiona with all his heart.

She was as the stars to him, a vast universe to know and to discover.

Then he knew what he desired, what would satisfy his soul right now, with her.

“I have just realized,” he said, “that we have been so busy, I have not shown you my house—just a room or two. I want you to see all of it now.”

She lifted her head. “I’d like that.” She pulled out of his arms and he took her hand.

He led her room by room, all around the perimeter of the glass-and-wood structure, what he had designed with his mind and built with his hands, through several guest rooms, a media room, a large wine cellar deep in the earth, the locker where he kept his battle flight gear and his weapons, the workroom once more, and the large conservatory filled with plants and trees from around the world.

Closing the glass door, she looked around and said, “Why do I have the feeling that we’ve walked in a very large circle?”

“Because we have.” He gestured in the direction of an arched wooden door. “This is … the very center of my house.”

He felt so odd speaking the words. His heart made a rushing sound in his ears as he opened the door, holding it wide for her so that she could walk in before him. This room, which was not exactly a room, held special meaning for him. When he could not sleep, he came here. In the past five months, he had come here often.

“I call this the sycamore room.”

She did not get far, just a few feet. She looked up and gasped. She looked down and did the same.

She looked up again.

Filling the room and branching out high overhead was an Arizona sycamore, just starting to leaf out, perhaps sixty feet in height. The bark was still white from the winter.

The tree had already been grown when he built this part of his house. The space, forty feet across, was completely open to the sky and subject to the weather no matter the season.

One massive branch hung quite low, at waist height. “I often sit in the crook of this lower branch and meditate, or try to, when sleep escapes me.”

She put her hands on her cheeks. “So beautiful,” she whispered.

There was no light pollution to impede the view of a black night sky. Nor were there windows on the ten-foot redwood walls.

“I could stay here forever,” she said, her voice still hushed.

She could not have spoken sweeter words.

She looked down again and took a few tentative steps. He did not blame her. The floor was constructed of panels of thick, very expensive glass, supported by steel beams, perfectly safe but the illusion of falling was still there. Several decades ago he had created a channel directing water from Oak Creek to create a second stream so that this round central room would be suspended above flowing water. He maintained an island around the tree.

The sky above, water below, a tree through the middle, alive and growing.

She continued to walk until she stood near the tree. “I feel as though I’m in the center of the universe.”

“You are the center of mine.”

She turned to face him. She released a sigh and smiled.

He went to her, his heart full. He took her in his arms and kissed her, deeply. She leaned into him and her lovely sweet croissant scent rose up and up to surround and engulf him.

“So, the breh-hedden?”

“Oui.”

She looked around. “Were you thinking we would do this in here?”

“I wasn’t thinking of the breh-hedden when I brought you here, but you may be right.” He turned in a half circle, then back. “I meditate in this room. I look at the stars, I enjoy the cool air, the sound of the creek below. In the summer the tree is fully leafed and fragrant. I would like to do this here but—what is it? Your eyes are very wide.”

“Jean-Pierre, would you mount your wings for me?”

“You mean right now? Here?”

She nodded. “I … have never seen it done. I mean, I’ve seen it happen, but never up close. I’m wondering if perhaps I saw the wings emerging—”

She moved around him to his back. When she swept a hand down his wing-locks, he drew in a sharp breath. “Très sensitive, chérie, especially to your touch.” He still wore his flight gear, so the wing-locks were fully exposed.

“Sexual,” she stated.

“At times like this, yes.”

He heard her sigh.

“But oui, I would be more than happy to mount my wings for you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, yet again, this time almost reverently. He felt her lips pressed to his back, and his heart seized at the tender gesture. “I just need to ask one more thing.”

He knew before she asked. “You wish me to mount my wings without hindrance of clothing.”

He heard her soft hiss. “Yes.” The accompanying swirl of her scent made him smile.

He folded his battle gear off, sending it to his locker. The cool air above flowed over his body.

Her hands found his waist and he caught them in his. Yes, his heart was so very full.

He focused on his back. He had mounted his wings for two centuries; the process was like breathing and usually the work of a few seconds, sometimes less. But he wanted her to see everything and to feel his back during the process if she wished, so he took it slowly.

“You may touch my back if you like. Just remember that the apertures will weep and of course every touch of yours is like fire.”

“Okay,” she murmured.

He allowed the muscles and tissues to swell all down his back in a V shape. The wing-locks tingled and he felt a sense of arousal at the base of his spine. Over the years, he had of course learned to keep his cock from responding, from growing stiff, because mounting wings was very close to a sexual experience. But because he was with Fiona and he could smell her own state of arousal, he let his body respond as it wished to respond.

He felt her hands very gently on his back and once more her lips as she kissed him over and over.

His throat grew tight as his desire for her increased. He took deep breaths, prolonging the moment so that she could explore. It became difficult when she touched the apertures then licked one of them.

“No, chérie,” he called out. “Or I cannot control what I am doing.”

She returned to the thickened flesh just below his shoulder, little kisses that felt like butterflies touching his skin. “Are you ready to mount?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then let your wings fly.”

Jean-Pierre closed his eyes. To do this for his woman meant something, and with a thought he released what he had been holding back.

His wings came in a quick flurry of movement, an extremely sensuous experience, very much like an orgasm, so that when he drew his wings into full-mount, then further extended them to almost touch at the tips overhead, a sense of well-being flowed through his veins.

“Oh, Jean-Pierre, they’re so beautiful. I’ve seen them before, but never up this close. The color is magnificent, almost like—”

“Your eyes,” he said. He had not considered it before, but it was true. “My wings are the color of your eyes, silver-blue.”

He heard her gasp. He drew in his wings to close-mount, pulling them up tight against his body so that he could turn to face her. Then he let them unfurl to full-mount once more. He wanted her to see them, all of them, front and back. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">