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She groaned.
He fucked her on the counter, first with one hard cock and then with the other, his fingers flicking her nipples, the tip of his tail tickling her clit, and he made her comeagain.
The cold tacos were delicious.
xi.
“I’M A RAVENmocker,” came Dahlia’s voice in the darkness of Niles’s loft.
It had been a week.
A week, and she’d been in his bed every night, every single night, and she’d let him put one of his cocks in her ass again twice, and she’d put her mouth on him, which women often seemed a little hesitant about because his cocks were covered in lubrication. Honestly, he thought it was a little unfair of them, considering most women had self-lubricating genitalia also, so they shouldn’t balk, but he also couldn’t, like, demand someone put their mouth on himthere. He was never going to be that guy, no way.
Dahlia had just done it, no urging on his part. Her warm little wet mouth had bobbed back and forth on his cocks on more than one occasion, and she was as amazing at that as she was at everything else.
The sex wasphenomenal.
But that was only part of it. She was easy to be around. She made him feel good about himself. She seemed to notice the good things about him in a way that other people didn’t. And she was simply awesome.
Every time they were walking together in town, he felt this sense of disbelief and astonishment that this woman was withhim. People could look at them holding hands and see it.
Had the whole of the town shut up about their opinions of their relationship?
Well.
No, they had not. It was hot gossip and it was still being spread around, so people were just hearing about it now, and then finding the need to seek out one or the other of them and give their totally unasked-for opinion.
Living in a small town had its benefits, and Shepherdstown was as forgiving a small town as you could find. Even so, it also had its drawbacks. And everyone knowing his business, well, it wore on him.
Now, he stopped his fingers from where they were gently stroking the scarred burnt edges of her wings, something he’d gotten used to doing when they were in bed together, something she seemed to find relaxing, and said, “Hmm?”
“Raven mocker,” she said.
“That’s, um, a Native American species, right?” he whispered.
“Cherokee,” she said. “Obviously, I’m not full-blooded. Both my parents are elves. But my great-great grandmother, she was a raven mocker.”
“Oh, yeah, okay,” he said and went back to stroking the wings. This was the big secret? What? Did she think he was secretly speciesist or something? Maybe she hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t exactly of elvish or fae descent himself here?
“Do you know anything about raven mockers?”
“Uh…” He didn’t, really. He knew all kinds of shitty stereotypes. Blood too pure to handle alcohol. Rain dances. Feathered headdresses. He also knew how people stereotyped his own culture.Yes, we all own gas stations.So, he wasn’t going to do that to her. “Do you want to tell me?”
“We sense when people are about to die,” she said.
“Oh,” he said. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“That must be… intense?”
“And then, if I don’t get away fast enough or get myself under control, I… shift.”
“Shift form?”
“The wings, they’re flaming wings, and I start craving…” She didn’t finish her sentence.
“Craving what?”
