Every filthy word, each sacred phrase twisted into sin, dragged her closer to the edge.
“Come for me, beautiful one,” Splice growled, vines cinching tighter around her ribs and thighs, holding her open for his mouth. “Soak me. Drown me. Show my god the fire that lives in you.”
A thick vine surged from him, slick and insistent, and with one deep thrust, it speared into her. Goldie screamed, raw and ragged, her back arching as it filled her to the hilt.
It was alien. It was perfect. She clenched around the thick intrusion, stretched wide, every inch of her fluttering and alive. The pressure hit deep, grinding against that raw, desperate place inside her, while his tongue flicked in ruthless rhythm against her clit.
She felt it everywhere—in her spine, her ribs, her womb—pleasure blooming like fire through a field of dry grass, hot and wild and sacred. Magic threaded through her like roots through soil.
Her hands fisted in his hair, dragging him tighter against her cunt as he devoured her, tongue lashing harder as the vine thrust again, deeper and hungrier.
“Oh gods—Splice?—”
The orgasm tore through her in a brutal, blistering release. She clamped down around the vine, spasming in wild, frantic pulses. Her whole body convulsed, wracked by wave after wave as pleasure detonated, merciless and bright, until she was nothing but muscle, sound, and shaking light, screaming his name like a prayer.
The Grove Core answered. Power burst out of her in a rush of green-gold light, arcing straight into the Thornfather’s slumbering form. Leaves quivered. Branches shuddered. Petals unfurled in silent, reverent shock as the god drank down her climax like sacrament.
Goldie collapsed onto the moss, chest heaving, slick with sweat. The vine still pulsed inside her, coaxing sweet aftershocks from her overstimulated flesh as Splice licked her down from the high—slow, reverent strokes that made her twitch and moan.
At last, he lifted his head. His mouth glistened. His eyes blazed with that same green-gold power that had spilled from her. He looked at her—shaking, glowing, undone—and then turned toward the Thornfather’s vast, waiting body.
But something else was rising in her now. Power. Wild and electric. Hunger, hot and blooming.
Goldie surged forward, grabbing Splice’s shoulders and shoving him back into the moss. He landed with a grunt, wide-eyed—then grinned in dawning comprehension. Goldie straddled him, thighs bracketing his hips.
Gods, he was thick and hard, the blunt head of his cock glistening, pulsing with need. She leaned close, hair falling in a coppery curtain, mouth hovering above his. Her voice was hers, but power echoed through it, ancient and resonant.
“My turn,” she murmured. “The land is ready. The god is waking.” Her gaze locked to his, blazing. “And this witch is ready for you to sow her field.”
Her gaze roved over him slowly, reverently: the carved muscle of his chest, the bark-like patterns on his skin, the green-gold veins pulsing faintly beneath. Every line of him was a landmark in a sacred territory she longed to map. Her hands traced downward, trailing heat and magic, until they reached the straining length between them.
Her hand closed around him. Splice choked, head snapping back, vines flaring wild in response. He was hot in her grip, impossibly hard, the thick shaft textured in ways that made her sex clench in anticipation.
“Well, aren’t you pretty,” she purred. Her thumb spread his slick across the glowing crown in lazy circles. She began strokinghim inslow, deliberate pulls that had him groaning, then a sudden punishing pace that made his hips buck, then back to slow again, cruelly teasing. She was learning him, playing him like an instrument, dragging him to the edge and yanking him back.
“Marigold.” His voice cracked, desperate, eyes flaring wildly. “If you keep touching me like that, I’ll spill before I ever reach your cunt.”
Her lips curled. She bent low and dragged her tongue along his length from root to crown, savoring him, claiming him. His entire body seized, a raw cry ripping free as he arched off the ground, vines snapping taut, hips bucking wildly.
She swallowed him deep, throat clenching around the thick length, sucking hard as he writhed beneath her. His hands fisted in her hair to hold her there, to push her down harder, to fuck her mouth with frantic, stuttering thrusts.
She felt the tremor in him, the desperate tightening that warned of release, and pulled back, lips slipping free of him. He collapsed back, panting, utterly wrecked. His glowing eyes were wild, hungry, pleading.
“Not yet,” she husked, her voice low and merciless. She rose and straddled his hips, her dripping cunt hovering just above the slick, straining head of his cock. “We come together. For your god.”
Her hand wrapped around his length, guiding him to her entrance. The blunt head pressed against her slick folds, sliding just enough to coat before she held him there, teasing herself with the stretch she craved.
As she poised above Splice, the Thornfather stirred. The air thickened. Moss shivered. Petals trembled on their stems. Approval.
Splice’s hands clamped hard to her hips, bruising and reverent all at once. “He is blessing this,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “He is… grateful.”
The confirmation lit her veins with fire. She leaned down and brushed her lips against his. “Then let’s give him a show.”
With a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, she sank down onto him.
Her cry shattered the atrium as his cock split her wide, filling her inch by aching inch until she was stretched to the edge of bearing. Heat and fullness radiated through her, so sharp it was almost pain.
A green-gold light flared from the walls as the land roared in answer, vines unfurling overhead, and a pulse of life surging outward as if the land itself reveled with her.
