Page 47 of May: Bloom & Bane

“What beautiful pélas,” I breathe against the soft skin of her inner thigh.

Her fingers curl into the dahlias. “What—ahhh—” Her voice catches as my fingers glide over her again. “What does that mean?”

I look up at the length of her body—the moonlit curves, the copper spill of her hair, the darkness of her eyes—and my mouth curves in a way it never has before.

My wings tremble above us.

“Pélas,” I say again, dragging one blunted skelva in a slow line over her outer lips, then the inner, parting her gently, “means lips.”

My fingers pass over her again. “These lips specifically.”

“Oh,” she breathes. Her hips lift, chasing my hand. “I like—uhh—this lesson.”

“There are more.”

“Teach me,” she whispers. “Teach me all of them.”

I lower my mouth and taste her. The sound she makes scatters the fireflies from the grass. Her back arches off the dahlia bed, and her flavor floods my mouth. Honey and salt and need. The low, satisfied growl that escapes me is answered from somewhere beneath my own ribs. The flowers around us bloom so violently I hear stems snapping.

“Sage!” Her hand flies into my hair, gripping the roots. “Nghh.”

I drag my tongue through her pélas in long, unhurried licks. Her thighs shake around my head.

I find her kísh, and circle it once, lightly, and she nearly comes off the earth. (Clit)

“There,” she sobs. “Sage, please. Again.”

I obey.

“What is your word⁠—”

“Kísh,” I whisper against her.

I seal my mouth around her clit and suck slowly.

“I want you inside,” she breathes, her hips bucking against my mouth.

She wants us inside. My fingers are safe. Give them to her, he rasps.

I slide one blunted skelva through her slick heat, letting her feel the smooth bone of it, and then I press inside her.

“Oh—” Her whole body bows. Her lavína swallows my finger to the knuckle, tight and fluttering against the coolness of my bone. (Pussy)

Vresh. (Fuck)

She is burning inside. And my skelva—the dead, cold, monstrous half of me—warms inside her, degree by degree, like she’s teaching it to be alive again.

“Please.” Her hips chase my hand. “More.”

“Greedy little flower,” I murmur against her kísh. I add another finger, curling them together toward the little spot that makes her wail. The vines at her ankles tighten, keeping her open as her body tries to snap shut. “That’s it, ílyara. Let the meadow hear you.”

Her head falls back against the cushion of flowers.

“I can’t, Sage,” she pants, her hips rocking against the bone of my palm. “It’s too much.”

“It isn’t.” I curl my fingers again, sealing my mouth over her kísh. I suck, hard.

“Nghh. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”