Page 49 of A Taste for the Peculiar

His hand tightens with a growl. “Now. Come for me.”

She can’t think. Can’t speak. Can only claw at his legs while she falls apart against Cascade’s mouth. The wave of pleasure overtakes her, but Pye does not leave her. He presses awed words to the top of her head, lowering his mouth near hers as if he can inhale her release. As if he can feed from her.

The chair and Pye’s steady grip keep Avirin upright. She shakes and trembles, but her hips have a mind of their own, still rocking against Cascade’s tongue until it’s too much.

Pye cups her face in his hands, smoothing sweat-slick hair back from her forehead. “Did you get what you need?”

His hatched eyes stare into hers. She wants to get lost in him. She wants to reach for them, to pull them into her, but she can barely move. Of course she enjoyed herself. Of course she fed. That hunger is sated, but they both know she has a craving for something more.

For him.

Pye’s fingers dance across her clavicle until Avirin’s legs tremble, and with Pye’s help, she unmounts and sinks to the floor. Her limbs feel like jelly, and when Cascade reaches out to tug Avirin against her, Avirin curls into her side.

She hums at the patterns Cascade traces against her skin while Selbie rocks against Cascade. By now, Selbie’s back is to them, hips swirling in hypnotic figure eights against Cascade’s pelvis. She lifts her hair off her neck to look coyly over her shoulder, her motions slow and sensual.

Pye’s calf presses against Avirin’s back. Already, her arousal stirs to life again.

Cascade sighs dreamily. “I think I’ll extend my stay an extra week.” She trails a covetous hand over Selbie’s waist and rolls her hips. “Perhaps two.”

TWENTY-SIX

Pye

Pye watches Avirin begin to glow.

It’s not just from her feeding, though that alone brings a certain shine back to her. Pye and Avirin enjoy the rest of their visit with Cascade, traversing the grounds and staying up late into the night (when Cascade isn’t holed up with Selbie). By the time Cascade leaves, Mothry Cottage feels different somehow — wistful at her departure, but cozier among those who remain.

Avirin does not retreat back into her room. In fact, Pye is very pleased to see her at the breakfast table every morning, discussing plans with Selbie or describing the latest book she’s reading. There is nothing he loves quite like watching her elbows press to the table, words pouring out of her as excitement carries her away. But his favorite mornings are those when she keeps him in the corner of her eye and coyly asks, “What will you do today?”

Pye pours both their tea. “I plan to visit the orchard to prepare for fall. Would you care to join me?”

While they walk the rows of trees, the two of them settle into a rhythm. Pye points out discrepancies that Avirin transcribes in the ledger. He outlines insect activity, and she asks him questions. He ducks under branches, and she follows, the two of them always close beside each other.

After lunch, they make their way to the spring house, where Pye commandeers a jug of cider and lays out a blanket beside the stream. They sit for the better part of an hour, passing the jug between them while Avirin deciphers his scribbles in the daybook and replaces his illegible scrawl with her orderly penmanship. By the time they’re through, she’s organized a timeline of the previous year, an agenda of tasks for the next week, and a list of topics to be researched back at the cottage.

Pye leans back on his palms with a fond smile. “You are unceasingly impressive, Lady Avirin.”

She looks up from her notes. Loose tendrils of her hair drift on the breeze, her skin glistening in the summer sun. She starts to duck her head, but then, she pauses. “Lady Riften,” she corrects, cutting him a smug look before she turns back to the notebook.

Once the jug is empty, Pye gathers their things, and the two of them wander closer to the water. Rain has left the bank muddy, but by the time they realize it, they are already trapped. Pye tries to help Avirin cross the muck. He tugs on her hands to free her, but she nearly comes out of her shoes, leaving her gasping until it turns into giggles.

Once the two of them start, they can’t stop, hunched over in preposterous poses to keep their clothing clean. The joy is infectious. Pye loses all his strength to laughter, and Avirin can hardly keep her eyes open, sending her toppling off balance.

Pye dives to catch her and lands against the ground. Cold mud splatters his face and hands, soaking through the back of his shirt. He shifts in the muck. His clothing is ruined, but at least with Avirin lying atop his chest, only the hem of her dress is stained.

He grins. Avirin returns it, and the two of them dissolve into giddy amusement once more. She tries to brush the mud from his face, but her fingers are already covered, leaving a dark streak across his skin. She starts to apologize, but Pye turns their other cheek toward her. “I fear you’ve missed a spot, my lady.”

Skeptically, she lifts a brow. When Pye doesn’t turn away, she lifts her hand slowly and draws her muddy fingers across his face again.

“Perfect.” He relishes being painted by her hand, no matter how dirty it leaves him.

She stares at the blemish for a long moment, and then, she reaches for his hand around her waist. Carefully, she pulls it away from her body and guides it down into the mud beside them.

Pye sucks in a breath at the wet earth against his skin. Avirin holds his gaze, staring somewhere deep inside him before she brings his dirty hand up between them.

Her eyes are curious, not quite resolved to what she plans to do. She holds his wrist near the bare skin of her neck, a blank canvas untouched by dirt.

Pye’s pulse thrums. They open their mouth to speak, to assure her that she doesn’t have to, but then she guides their palm to her throat.