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For now, he drank and drank and though he could feel all the other sensations at once, that she was stroking his mind, and suckling his wrist, that she’d taken a thick rope of his hair in her free hand and that her hips were jerking against his and pulling his c**k in deep, the forefront of his mind was focused on what he took from her neck.
He loved her so much. That she was willing to give of herself like this pounded him within his mind and her energy became his energy. He felt determined and almost wild. His hips became a dedicated surge and pullback, surge and pullback, a heavy piston working the well of her body, working her pleasure, pumping and pumping.
He felt his release building and suddenly he could feel hers as well. He felt what it felt for her to have his shaft buried inside her. He trembled because the dual sensation of pleasure was too much, too much.
She pulled on his hair and he felt the texture of his own hair in her hand.
He tasted the flavor of his own blood in her mouth.
Yes, it was too much, too much, yet not enough.
Antony, what’s happening?
He couldn’t respond. He felt a wave of energy begin to flow through him, up from his feet, to his knees, his hips, his chest. The apertures along his back began to flood with moisture. He could feel her wing-locks as well, wet, so wet.
Then he understood. He had to get them both off the bed.
He slung one arm under her hips and the other securely around her shoulders so that he could continue to drink.
We’re off the bed.
Yes, let it come now, all of it.
My wings. Oh, God, they’re coming.
Yes, yes, yes.
As her wings mounted his did as well, a simultaneous release that launched the other release. He withdrew his fangs from her neck and cried out. She screamed and he felt her pleasure, the lightning of ecstasy that streaked over her most tender flesh and flew up the well of her body and gripped him—and as she gripped him, he pumped into her that other fluid of life, that which had the power to create life. He pumped and pumped. His wings stretched and reached, wafted to keep them both floating in the air.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh God.
Pleasure continued to flow in waves, deep pulsing waves, and he orgasmed a second time, heavily, his hips working her body. He felt her pleasure again as once more she screamed, her mouth no longer connected to his wrist, her arms holding him, her legs wrapped around his legs.
But if he felt her pleasure, what was she feeling?
***
Parisa screamed at the ceiling at the beautiful coffer beams that went in and out of focus. Orgasm had her in a powerful grip and it kept rolling through her. When her wings had released, she had climaxed as though there had never been an orgasm before in the entire course of the world. She had felt Antony’s release at the same time. When her wings came forth and his at the same time, she felt not only all those delicious sensations that had always characterized her wing-mounts, but all of his as well. The combination of experiences had been overwhelming.
And now she felt the pleasure building again. Even though Antony had already orgasmed more than once, already filled her full to overflowing, because they were involved in deep-mind engagement, and because his experiences were her experiences, she could tell he was going to climax again.
The exquisite pressure kept building and building. The release came. She threw her head back and screamed as the pleasure flowed—and then she felt it, a tremendous wave of energy that began at her feet, up through her hips, her chest, her shoulders, until it seemed to pass through the very top of her head.
At the same time she felt Antony’s pleasure, the pull of her well along his pulsing cock, the extreme pleasure of his orgasm as he once more spent his seed, the heady rush through his abdomen, chest, and head, pleasure upon pleasure.
Panting, sweaty, her wings wafting, slowly, his wings sustaining them in the air, his hips quieting, at last the sexual pleasure began to dim but was replaced by something new, a kind of warm exhilaration, a different kind of ecstasy.
She opened her eyes and met Antony’s gaze. His eyes were full of light, even more than usual. But her gaze was drawn away by colors playing over his shoulder. His wings flapped very gently, very steadily to hold them aloft, several feet above the bed.
She blinked. “Your wings are on fire.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “And so are yours.”
She turned her head to the side and saw the expanse of her wing, and Antony’s. Swirls of energy rose off both. The colors dazzled—gold, amethyst, blue, and green.
She shifted to meet his gaze once more. He seemed different. His hair danced around his shoulders as though the energy they had created blew it around like a soft breeze.
He was smiling. She was still in his mind and she knew his thoughts—he’d never been so happy.
Me, too. He nodded and smiled.
But the energy transformed suddenly. Antony winced, his back arched, and she felt him struggle. She knew, however, that she had to hold him in place.
She took the jolt next. It made her want to pull away but she forced herself to remain. Then she realized that this time he had kept her from moving, from disconnecting.
The click happened right there, chest-to-chest, a deep bond and joining. She stared into his eyes. He returned it.
The next moment, Parisa arched and cried out. “The pain. Oh, God the pain.”
“Oh, God. In your mind. So deep. The voyeur-link.” She knew he felt her pain because they were connected. “Is this what you’ve been experiencing?”
“Yes,” she whispered, tears tracking down her cheeks. “I can feel the link straining, almost trembling.” She arched again. Once more she cried out, then opened her eyes to look at him.
The pain stopped, an ending so sudden that she gasped. “Oh, my God. The breh-hedden just broke my link with Greaves.”
“Holy shit.” He smiled. “I can feel it, too. He’s gone. The bastard is gone.”
Another unexpected benefit of the bonding experience.
She was ready to embrace him, to speak of love, to explore what this bonding might mean for both of them, even to make love again. But a sudden, terrible understanding arose: Something bad was about to happen to Endelle, to Thorne, to all the Warriors of the Blood, to Colonel Seriffe and his contingent of Militia Warriors.
“Do you feel that?” he asked. “The danger, to everyone?”
“Yes. What do we do?” It was not an expression of doubt but a concern about strategy.
She flowed through Antony’s mind and picked up on the drift of his thoughts. He was riffling through all the books and articles he had read, and all the anecdotes he had ever heard about royle wings.
