The air thickened, clinging to her skin like humidity before a storm. It carried the scent of damp earth, the narcotic perfume of green things unfurling, and beneath it,him. Bark and moss, loam and petrichor, a wild note that made her ache to bury her face in his throat and just breathe him in.
This is for the Thornfather,she reminded herself desperately.A sacred rite.
The Grove Core might want a ritual. The Thornfather might need one. But gods and goddesses, Goldiedesiredit. Desperately. She wanted Splice’s mouth, the weight of his body pinning hers, his breath gasping in her ear. She wantedhim.
Her breath hitched. “So…” The word slipped out husky, stripped of her usual sparkle. “Um… how do we start?”
The question felt impossibly foolish, impossibly small for the magnitude of what they were about to do. There was no grimoire for this, no five-step guide to seducing a force of nature in order to save his god.
She almost blurted something witty, ready to ruin the moment with her own nerves, when Splice’s voice cut through the tension, impossibly gentle.
“How about we start… slow?”
Splice extended his hand. She met him halfway, her fingers trembling as they slid between his.
A current shot up her arm and slammed into her. His bark-like skin rasped against hers, alien yet sorightit made her dizzy.
Something brushed faintly in her chest—an echo, like the Grove Core was leaning in to listen. Not intrusive this time, just the ghost of a whisper, stirring the hairs on her neck.
Goldie shivered and steadied herself by bringing her other hand up, tracing the ridged veins and whorls on the back of Splice’s wrist. He shuddered violently, as if her touch scraped his nerves raw.
Then he was cupping her jaw, his thumb tenderly stroking her cheekbone.
“May I kiss you?” His voice was a low, rough murmur, laced with hope so earnest it broke something inside her.
A helpless laugh escaped. “Sweetie,” she breathed, her own voice unsteady, “you’re going to have permission to do a lot more than that?—”
The words were cut off in her throat as Splice closed the distance, claiming her mouth with his.
The kiss was everything and nothing like she’d imagined. It began tender and reverent, almost like a question. But then a low groan tore from his chest, raw and starving, and the gentleness scorched away.
His mouth moved harder against hers, urgent, devouring. His tongue pushed past her lips, sweeping into her mouth, tangling with hers in a slick, desperate duel. She met him with equal fervor, answering fire with fire, surrendering to the heat that surged between them.
His lips broke from hers just long enough to murmur against her skin, “You taste like summer rain. I could drown in you.”
Goldie’s hands grew bolder, sliding beneath the hem of his shirt and pressing flat to the solid plane of his chest. His skin was slightly rough and warm, like wood warmed by the sun. It sent a jolt straight to her core.
Then, his mouth was on her throat, open and hot, dragging kisses over her pulse. She gasped, head tipping back, a soft moan spilling free before she could stop it. His hands clamped her hips, no longer tentative, guiding her backward until the floor caught her and she was sinking beneath him.
He loomed over her, all shadow and heat, eyes torn between holy reverence and profane hunger. The weight of his body pressed her down, pinning her in the best way, and she arched against him, the friction pulling another ragged sound from her lips.
“I have attended rites of pure creation.” His voice was a guttural hum that vibrated through her bones. “Rituals where life was sung into being from soil and starlight. But this…” His mouth grazed her collarbone, teeth catching lightly on her skin. “This is the first time I have ever trulyfeltthe magic.”
Her nails dug into his chest, desperate, shameless. “Splice,” she gasped.
“With you, this isn’t a duty.” His breath burned against her skin, his voice becoming lower and darker. “It’s a craving.”
As he spoke, vines unfurled from the flesh of his arms. They slid across her skin like silken fingers, smooth and warm, one curling tight around her ribs, another tracing the edge ofher collarbone. One bold tendril slipped beneath her shirt, its leafy tip brushing the sensitive underside of her breast before spiraling inward, teasing her nipple.
She arched off the moss, a moan tumbling from her lips, shameless and raw. Heat pooled between her thighs, soaking her leggings, every nerve ending lit up and begging.
“I ache to taste you,” he growled against her throat.
The vine at her stomach dipped lower, pressing against the fabric at the juncture of her thighs. The blunt pressure on her clit made her vision explode with stars.
A full-body shudder seized her. “Yes,” she gasped, voice thick and desperate. “Gods, Splice, please?—”
And then everything stopped.
