Page 49 of May: Bloom & Bane

“Y-you’re looking at me. I’m right here.”

Dahlias surge up around us in a wave of midnight petals. Their scent mixing with hers makes my head swim.

“No,” she whines, little beads of sweat dripping down the center of her stomach.

“I need to watch you.”

She wants to watch you touch yourself, he rasps.

“Eden,” I breathe, my voice barely more than a rasp at this point. “You want me to⁠—”

“Touch yourself… for me,” she says. “I want you to come for me while I ride your wing.”

Ashán roars his approval. Yes. YES! Give her everything. Show her we’re hers to command.

My hand shakes as it leaves her thigh.

I have never done this before.

When I touch her, my magic takes over, and I feel what to do. It’s instinctual. This is completely different.

The leaves covering my pelvis have long since drawn aside—they parted the moment I started scentmarking her, honest as everything else that grows on me. When I finally wrap my fingers around my vék, the sound she makes from atop my wing nearly ends me before I begin. (Cock)

“Oh,” she breathes. “Sage, you’re glowing.”

The gold vines wound around my length pulse with light, brightening with every beat of my heart, casting soft shadows up my stomach.

I glance down at myself, the deep green of my base fading paler through the middle, flushing to something almost human at the tip, slick with golden lavásia already welling free and running down over my knuckles. (Aphrodisiac pollen)

She hasn’t taken her eyes off it.

“I leak it,” I manage. “It’s the same as the dust from earlier. When I want you. I can’t control it.”

“Move your hand, Sage. Please.”

I stroke myself once, my eyes never leaving hers. “Like this?” I rasp, desperate for her approval.

Her lips part. “Yes,” she moans. “Just like that.”

I stroke myself again, root to tip, and the vibration starts.

It begins in my kná—the petals trembling at my base, each one quivering as it swells—and spreads through my sóva, up my spine, into the ridges of my wings until the bones beneath her are thrumming. (Knot) (Balls)

She grinds down hard against them.

“Sage.” Her head falls back. “You’re vibrating.”

“You’re doing this to me,” I rasp. My fist tightens, the gold vines wrapped around my shaft flaring brighter. “You, riding me, ílyara. My whole body is blooming for you.”

That’s quite enough, flowerboy, Ashán sighs. Stroke harder, and cover her in our scent.

She plants her hands on either side of the ridge and rides, her valúsha slicking my bone, her breasts swaying with every roll of her hips. Moonlight and gold painting her like something the gods would start wars over.

My hand moves without grace, the kná at my base swelling fuller, the petals spreading and vibrating hard enough to shake loose dahlia petals from the blooms around us. Lavásia drips down my wrist.

“Sage,” she moans, “Ashán. Faster.”

I obey. My fist pumps faster, twisting on the upstroke so the vines catch and drag. My wing vibrates so hard it threatens to throw her off.