Her gaze swept over them.
“Your wings are enormous.” But her brow grew pinched.
“What is it?”
“Why can’t I mount my wings?” She met his gaze and searched his eyes.
“I do not know, chérie, but it will happen when it is meant to happen, I promise you that.”
She dipped her chin twice then she smiled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be worrying about that right now.” She reached out and stroked the feathers. “Does this hurt or bother you?”
“No, a light touch is perfectly fine, but pulling hard on a feather hurts very much.”
Her gaze raked his chest then drifted lower. When another swell of her heavenly scent flowed over him, his cock, also at full-mount, jerked in response.
She met his gaze once more then lifted up on her feet to kiss him, her hands lightly on his shoulders. “Can you make love in full-mount?”
He smiled. “Oui, chérie, most definitely, but it will require some finesse.”
She glanced around, her head wagging back and forth. “But … how, exactly?”
He saw the confusion on her face and he sought about in his mind. A piece of prescience came to him, a ripple of time that wiggled within his head: He knew what would happen during the breh-hedden, something so beautiful, so extraordinary, for a moment his lungs would not work. He also saw something else, the precise reason her most essential power was called obsidian flame.
“Fiona, can you trust me? I must know.”
She smiled, almost shyly. “Of course I trust you.”
“Good. You will need to.”
She took a small step back. “Now you’re scaring me.”
“I am going to fold something into my arms.”
“Okay.”
He waved a hand.
“Oh.” She laughed then stroked the nubby woven throw from his couch. “I thought maybe you meant to bring the piano in here.” She chuckled again. “Okay, so what is this for?”
He drew his wings close once more, turned around, and laid the throw over the low branch of the tree. “I want you here on your stomach. I want to complete the breh-hedden in this position. There is a reason for it, but I wish to keep it to myself for now. Can you trust me? Can you do this for me?”
* * *
Fiona blinked. Surely, she blinked. But her mind traveled swiftly to the grotto. He had taken her from behind and now it would seem he meant to do it again.
She gasped but only because the desire she felt almost stung it was so intense, as though a hand gripped her between her legs.
Jean-Pierre moaned and closed the distance. He took her in his arms and kissed her, his tongue thrusting. You smell of croissants, chérie.
As his lips played over hers, as his tongue probed her mouth, she sent, I was in this position in the grotto.
He groaned and once more everything very low tightened and tugged and pulled. She was so close and all he was doing was kissing her. But then what else was new?
He drew back, and she turned toward the branch.
Fiona shivered. She didn’t wait for the suggestion, she simply folded her clothes off. She knew Jean-Pierre. She knew how much he loved the way she looked from behind so she draped herself over the branch, at the hip, and with her bare feet flat on the glass floor she spread her legs.
The sound that came from him was a deep, throaty grunt. She wasn’t surprised that what she felt first was the crown of his cock pressing against her opening in small pushes, one after the other, but not quite entering her.
His hands were on her hips and his long fingers began kneading her buttocks on each side. He then slid his hands down her thighs then back up. The whole time she felt the pressure of his cock.
He leaned over her and kissed her back, then began licking her wing-locks and sucking the apertures. She groaned and arched her neck, crying out. Oh, yes, wing-locks were so sensitive. Shivers raced down her sides.
She held on to the wide branch supporting herself. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
He kissed his way down her back, kissing lower and lower, his lips gliding over her buttocks. Using his thumbs, he spread her wide, then something very soft and wet entered her. His tongue. Oh, God, his tongue.
She cried out as he began to lap at her. His hands moved over her thighs, then up and up to caress her buttocks. The whole time he lapped. You taste so good, Fiona. A feast for me. A rich, decadent feast.
I love that you’re tasting me, feasting on me.
He drove his tongue into her again and again, until little cries left her mouth. She was so close. He squeezed the flesh of her buttocks. Come for me, mon amour. Come for me.
His voice, his beautiful resonant voice with the French lilt, took her over the edge. She cried out long and loud, pleasure streaking through her, as he continued to pummel her with his tongue and drive his fingers into her buttocks.
I can feel the depths of you plucking at my tongue, chérie. So beautiful. Now come for me again.
Her body responded and she cried out once more, her hips grinding into the branch. Between his tongue and his fingers, she came again. And again.
At last sated, at least for the moment, she lay slack on the branch, her head curved over the side, her knees bent a little, a series of soft sighs puffing from her mouth.
“Such beautiful sounds you make.” He now stood up behind her, his hand rubbing down the center of her back. “Your wing-locks are weeping.”
She felt his lips next as he kissed her wing-locks one after the next, then shivered when his tongue flicked the apertures.
“Oh” erupted from her mouth. “Jean-Pierre you don’t know how good that feels.”
“Oh, but I do.”
More shivers, like rain down her body.
“The tissues of your back are swollen, Fiona. I think you will mount your wings very soon.”
He began to move her hair away from the left side of her neck, and she shivered a little more. Once more, his cock pressed at her opening. She wiggled her hips, trying to help him find his way inside. Not that he needed help, but she suddenly wanted the connection, wanted his cock inside her, wanted it deep.
“You are so anxious, then? You need me to be inside you now?”
She murmured an unintelligible mmm, then said, “Yes. Oh, God, yes.”
As he dipped low to kiss her neck, he began a slow thrust of his hips and she felt what she wanted finally enter her. She had always loved sex, the connection, the oneness.
Tonight would be different as well, more intense, more meaningful, and things would happen, unexpected things. Anxiety fluttered in her stomach, but she wouldn’t think of that, not now.
Tears welled in her eyes. “I love you,” she whispered.
He licked her neck in long strokes above the vein. He shifted her head slightly to create a better angle. He slid his right arm under her chest and supported her. “I need your blood,” he whispered. “I want your blood in me, down my throat, entering my veins, strengthening me.”
He flexed his hips and reached the end of her. He drew back very slowly. Maybe it was the angle, but as his cock dragged over her, she groaned.
The licks along her neck grew stronger until she felt her vein rise. The moment it did, he struck, a quick pierce that tightened her deep inside. His hips moved in a steady pace now as he drank from her.
Jean-Pierre, she sent, you’ll make me come again.
Yes, I want you to come. Please come. Ah, your blood, like fire. Mon Dieu.
His hips bucked into her hard now. Even the massive tree moved a little. Each thrust set his wings in motion so that the air flowed over her skin, another layer of sensation.
The orgasm came quick and fast, lightning along her flesh, a swelling ache that kept spilling over and over her. He held her pinned as he drank so she couldn’t do anything more than release a long guttural sound.
You are pulling on me, he sent. So close. So close. Take my wrist, Fiona. Let us see this through to the end.
She took his arm and with but a whisper of a thought her fangs emerged. She struck, drew blood, and began to drink. He was still buried deep, as hard as a rock, but he didn’t move.
Prepare for my mind, he sent.
I’m ready. Oh, your blood. Oh, God. Oh, God.
He tasted of his rich maleness and a hint of coffee; still, it wasn’t the flavor but the power in his blood that began to build within her. A fire, yes a fire, that burned hot, that could ignite her and burn her down to nothing.
His mind drew up against hers like a solid wall.
Ready? he sent.
Yes.
He pushed. The smallest push. Then his mind was in her mind. She had felt this before, in the grotto.
He rolled through her mind, a heavy wave of sensation, a type of joining, another connection. His wings wafted, his hips thrust, his mouth suckled at her throat. Groans swirled over her ears.
Pleasure rode Fiona, a fine horse in the home stretch. She had already come several times, but this moment, with Jean-Pierre in her mind, taking her blood, and moving in and out of her, surrounded her like warm bathwater. She could sense the orgasm waiting, as if offshore, for the wind to blow it into port, and it would be powerful.
She was so happy, absurdly happy, to have this man, this vampire, this warrior, taking her blood, entering her, rolling over her mind. She needed a new word for what this felt like, for the fire moving in her veins because of his blood.
Euphoric. Yes, she felt euphoric and peaceful and one with her man.
Come to me, he sent.
She understood his meaning and in a simple way, she pushed into his mind. She could feel how close he was to orgasm, how with the strongest effort he held himself back, waiting for her, perhaps for this moment.
I’m here.
I love you in my mind, Fiona.
I love being here. But, Jean-Pierre, this is it. We’ve done it all. The breh-hedden.
Oui. Oh, Fiona, Fiona, my darling, ma chérie.
Jean-Pierre. Tears fell from her eyes.
He moved his hips faster and suddenly he released her neck and rose upright, the sweep of his wings sending cool air over her weeping back. He held on to the branch and rocked into her, hard.
She retracted her fangs from his wrist and the orgasm barreled down on her. Unlike the others, because her body was on fire, the sensations flash-flooded her, sending series of pleasurable streaks up through the well of her body, little hits of lightning, up and up.