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“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.
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 c**k 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 bu**ocks 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 bu**ocks. 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 bu**ocks. 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 bu**ocks. 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 bu**ocks.
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 c**k 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 c**k inside her, wanted it deep.
