Chapter 44
Unity.
He undressed. His simple human body was already throbbing with need. Years, the journey. Most passed in the Sleep. She, of course, did not age as a human. She bloomed each anum, refreshed and renewed. In winter, she went deep, root and soil.
She loved his nakedness, his strange human form. She touched, tasted, drew tendrils and leaves and petals over his flesh. He surged, aching. Their thoughts mingled, only when they were so close that her mind was one with his could she hear the flavor of his love. He fell to his knees, weak with desire. He stroked the soft flowers, the pheromones of her wanting filled his senses. Delirious with joy, Unity exploded. His cock seemed too small to give such joy, such a tiny part of him, when each particle of Bowen gave her delight. She quivered at his nearness, blossomed under his thoughts.
She brought his essence into herself, tasted and desired, loved and needed. The shaft, now. He pressed the pollen against her seed and she joined him in vegetative ecstasy. A puff of dandelion, shattering seeds against the wind.
Blossom.
You, I love.Simon Says by Elizabeth L. Brooks
Simon opens the door and I walk through. There is a flutter low in my belly, a shiver of anticipation.
He closes the door and locks it, ever-careful, before turning to face me. “Well?” he asks. “How many did you get?”
“I got fourteen,” I tell him.
His eyebrows go up, though I doubt he is truly surprised. Our counts never match. “I counted twenty-three violations,” he says mildly.
Whether or not he is surprised, I certainly am. Our violation counts usually only differ by two or three. Shit, twenty-three? And each violation a punishment stroke. Fourteen was already pushing the limits of my endurance—the most I’ve ever taken was seventeen. I swallow hard. “You’re kidding,” I try.
He shakes his head. “Six times you stood to my left,” he counts, “five self-deprecating comments at two strokes each—that’s sixteen. Four chocolates, that’s twenty. And my score was higher than yours three times.” Simon is nothing if not meticulous.
“I only counted four lefts,” I counter, “and three self-deps. And the chocolates aren’t individual violations; they all go together! One plate of dessert!” The scores, at least, are not up for debate. Our monthly Game Night with our friends has become so much more entertaining since we added our own, private game to it.
Simon’s lips are twitching, trying not to smile as we negotiate the final count. “I’ll let the extra lefts go,” he concedes, “but not the self-deprecation. I hate it when you put yourself down.” His unflagging insistence in my worth and beauty is one of the things I love most about Simon, even if I’m not sure I agree with his assessments. A two-stroke violation for self-deprecation is always his first choice for the night’s rules.
“As for the chocolates,” he continues, “you were the one who put dessert on the list tonight!”
“Melody told me she was going to make banana pudding.” I pout. “She changed it to chocolate bourbon balls at the last minute.” I don’t like bananas and had been sure of that victory. But Melody’s chocolate bourbon balls ought to be controlled by the DEA. I was proud of myself for only having had the one plate.
Simon shakes his head. I’d known he wasn’t going to give in, but I’m still at, what? twenty-one strokes? He doesn’t use a particularly heavy hand, but his favorite crop has a fierce sting. The trembling in my belly is an earthquake now, and more than a little of it is fear. Simon notices, and his hands cup my face. “You have your words,” he reminds me softly.
I scowl. Of course I haven’t forgotten my safewords. I’m just not quite sure it’s reached that point yet. “I know,” I say. “But I don’t want to end the game. I just want to tip it back in my favor.”
Simon chuckles and kisses me, then kisses me again, deeper. I let his slow exploration of my lips and mouth ignite me, the fire of lust galvanizing fear into nervous excitement. His fingers slide up into my hair, clenching and releasing as my body melts against his. His erection presses against my stomach, hot and urgent even through our clothes.
Seventeen had been scary, too, at first. The most I’d managed to endure before that had been fifteen. He’d paused there, giving me time to gasp out my words, but what I’d said, caught in the glow and rhythm, was, “Don’t stop!” Afterward, he’d tortured me again in yet another way, capturing me on the brink of release and holding me there for what seemed hours, writhing and whimpering through those gentle caresses until it seemed all the world was on fire. When he finally let me come, I was still screaming my pleasure as he’d buried himself in me, his cock milking the last shudders of pleasure from my straining body—or perhaps it was the other way around.