“I like these sounds,” he whispered, voice husky. His mouth hovered over her jaw, trembling against her skin. “I want… more of them.”
Another vine unfurled from his arm—thicker, slicker—curling down with unhurried intent. It slipped beneath the waistband of her leggings and wound around the curve of her ass, dipping between her thighs and gently urging them wider.
She whimpered, head tipping forward until her forehead pressed against his. Her breath came in ragged bursts against his lips. “Gods, Splice. You learn fast.”
His breath hitched against her throat. She felt it—sharp, startled, then shivering outward from his chest into every vine. Still they moved, sliding, curling, learning her. They traced the edge of her soaked panties, then slipped beneath, finding the damp curls at the apex of her thighs.
“I can smell you,” he rasped, his voice wrecked. “Gods—so sharp, so sweet. It floods me.”
Goldie gasped as the vine found her slick slit and flicked gently through it, parting the wet folds. Her entire body shuddered.
Splice moaned into her shoulder, his voice dark and hungry. “You burn. Inside and out. I’ve never—” His words broke into a groan. “Never felt anything like this.” His hand tightened at her hip, trembling, as if holding on to anchor himself.
“Yes,” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Keep going—don’t stop.”
He groaned, low and ragged, and the tendril slid inside—thick and alive, curling as it pressed into her. Not just thrusting, but exploring, brushing places no lover had ever touched before,spiraling deeper with inhuman precision. It throbbed within her, twisting in arcs that stroked along her inner walls until her vision blurred.
Another vine slipped around her hip and coiled with aching precision over the swollen nub of her clit. Goldie wailed as it teased her with featherlight strokes, then firmer ones, syncing perfectly to her gasps, her writhing, the desperate buck of her hips.
Splice was panting against her throat now, muttering words that cracked between prayer and curse, in a language she didn’t recognize. Each syllable shook through her like heat lightning.
Her pleasure built, layer upon layer, sensation compounding until she could no longer tell where she ended and his vines began. It swelled, crested, then shattered her. Her body locked around him, clenching and quivering as the orgasm tore through her, and she screamed.
The vines held her upright while her body writhed, their strength the only thing keeping her from collapsing. Inside her, the tendril pulsed and curled, and she clenched greedily around it, milking every slick inch, shameless and wild.
Splice groaned, the sound rumbling from his chest and through the vines at once. “So wet,” he rasped. “Hot… tight… perfect.”
His vines slowed only enough to savor her, pulsing inside her like a heartbeat, coaxing her through every aftershock. Goldie gasped, trembling, every nerve lit up like a constellation burning itself into the night sky.
She let her palm trail down Splice’s chest—over the carved, bark-like lines of his sternum, across the ridges that flexed when he breathed. Lower, lower, until her fingers slipped past the line of his waistband.
She wrapped her hand around the thick length of him, and he twitched violently at the contact, hips jerking up against her hand with a broken moan.
It was a thick, pulsing root made flesh, alive beneath her palm. Tiny filaments unfurled from its surface, delicate as feeder threads, winding around her fingers as if to anchor themselves in her. His skin there wasn’t skin at all but something stranger: warmer, smoother, textured like polished wood but soft as velvet, throbbing in time with the vines still buried inside her.
As she stroked him, slow and deliberate, more vines uncoiled and twined around her fingers. Splice made a sound caught between protest and plea when she shifted, trying to rise from his lap, her body still shaking with the echo of pleasure. His vines tightened, reluctant and possessive.
“Please,” she breathed.
At the word, they loosened. Just enough.
She slipped from his lap, still tangled in writhing green, and sank to her knees between his spread thighs. Her hands flew to his waistband.
He was panting now, chest heaving in quick bursts. Vines looped across his ribs, curling tight over one shoulder. He looked down at her, eyes wild and faintly glowing, expression undone.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice raw and wrecked.
“I need to see you,” she whispered. “All of you.”
She tore his pants open, and his cock sprang free. It was thick, ridged with faint vein-like seams that pulsed with green light, and its head was flushed and glistening. It curved heavily against his stomach, twitching at the open air like it was already seeking her mouth.
It was beautiful. Wrong and right all at once. Textured like a taproot with silken striations that spiraled upward in subtle coils.
“Gods above,” she whispered, heat sparking all the way down her spine. “You’re gorgeous.”
She wrapped her hand around him again, and he groaned, his head falling back against the cushions of the couch.
The scent of him hit her like a spell: green and loamy and dark, sap-sweet and salt-slick, the breath of spring after a long winter. It smelled like sex and soil and the pulse of something alive.
