The grooves of the ancient oak feel like runes beneath my fingertips. Velvety moss, damp from perpetual dew, cushions the entrance to the inner sanctum. Behind me, her breath – a soft rise and fall that tickles my skin. Her vigilance settles like a weight on my shoulders.
“Are you ready for the pact, Elara?” I ask without turning around. My voice trickles hollowly between the gnarled pillars, like frozen sentinels.
“I am ready, Kael.” Her answer is firm, but a fine tremor rides it – not fear, but anticipation. She knows the meaning: not just the alliance of peoples, but something more ancient, something that can only be sealed through skin and blood.
Slowly, I turn. Elara stands in the blue and violet glow of the glow-mushrooms that light the walls. Her red-gold hair falls loose, her green eyes glinting in the twilight. A simple linen skirt to the knees, a tight top baring her muscular arms and shoulders. Bronze-hued skin, scattered with fine scars from countless battles. Her pulse throbs at her throat.
“Then let us begin.” I step closer. Resin, damp earth, her scent – salt, leather, and a sweet note that reminds me of wild thyme. My hand lifts, settles on her cheek. She does not flinch. Her warmth flows into my palm.
“I must touch you,” I whisper. “Everywhere. The pact demands we know each other without barriers.”
She nods once. “Do what is necessary.”
My other hand finds the hem of her top. Slowly, I pull it up; she raises her arms. The top slides over her head. Her breasts are firm, the dark nipples stiffening under my gaze. I lower my lips to her shoulder, tasting the salty sweat. She smells of battle and life.
“Kael,” she breathes, and her body relaxes a fraction beneath my lips.
My lips travel along her neck, sucking gently at the pulsing spot. A soft moan escapes her. Her hands find my neck, drawing me closer. Her fingers are rough with calluses, yet the touch is tender. A warm pull in my groin – the desire to go further.
The Undressing
I undo the tie of her skirt; it falls to the ground. Naked she stands before me, no hesitation in her stance. Strong legs, narrow hips, the dark fuzz between her thighs damp with expectation. I step back and shed my own clothes: tunic, trousers, the linen around my loins. Her eyes slide over my body, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“You wear your scars with pride,” she says.
“As you wear yours. They are the maps of our battles.”
We stand facing each other, naked, only a breath apart. The air vibrates, as if the forest itself has a part in the ritual. My hand extends, rests on her breast. The gentle curve fills my palm; my thumb strokes over the hard tip. She closes her eyes, her head tilting back slightly.
“It feels good,” she murmurs.
I lean forward and take her nipple between my lips. It tastes of earth and sweetness. Gently I suck; she presses my head tighter against her. Her hand slides into my hair, clenching. I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention, while my hand strokes over her belly, wandering lower.
When I feel the first moist hint between her legs, she shivers. I stroke through the wet slit, gathering her moisture on my fingertips. The scent is intense, musk and forest. I bring my fingers to my mouth, tasting her. The flavor is earthy, wild, a promise.
“You taste like summer rain,” I say hoarsely.
She laughs softly. “And you talk too much.”
She pushes me backward against a moss-covered rock ledge that juts out like a natural bench. I let myself fall, sitting on the cool moss, while she kneels before me. Her hands grip my hips, pulling me to the edge. I am already hard, the tension almost unbearable. She leans forward, her breath brushing the tip of my erection.
“Let me taste you,” she says, and then she takes me into her mouth.
A groan escapes me, deep from my chest. Her lips are warm, wet, her mouth a promise of surrender. She slides down until I feel the back of her throat, then up again, her rhythm slow, exploring. Her tongue plays around the head, tracing circles, while her hand grips the shaft. I place my hands on the back of her head, not pushing, just holding. She sucks harder, and pleasure steals my senses.
“Elara,” I gasp. “Stop, or I’ll…”
She releases me, a fine thread of saliva still connecting us. “Not yet. Not yet.”
She stands, straddles my lap. I feel her wetness on my thighs. She leans forward, kisses me, deep and demanding. Her tongue meets mine, and I taste myself on her. Her hand finds my sex, guides it to her opening. She rubs the tip against herself, a moan in my mouth.
The Union
Then she lowers herself down. Slowly, inch by inch, her body envelops me. I feel every fold, every contraction of her inner muscles. She is tight, hot, and when she sits fully on me, we are one. For a moment we do not move, only breathing, the pulsing between us.
“Move,” I whisper.
She lifts her hips, lowers them again. A slow, undulating rhythm that lets me feel deep inside her. Her hands rest on my shoulders, mine on her hips. I help her keep the pace as she grinds, searching, savoring. Her breasts bounce before my face; I lean forward, take one again in my mouth. She moans louder, her pelvis circling as I suck.
The rhythm quickens. Elara rides me now, her movements more powerful, her breaths gasping. Sweat glistens on her skin, the scent of both of us fills the air. Moss and lust. The heat inside me rises, gathering in my belly.
“Kael… I’m close,” she gasps.
“Wait,” I say, and with a swift motion I turn us around. She lies now on the moss, me over her, her leg over my hip. I thrust into her again, deep, hard. She cries out as I change the angle, and I feel her inner muscles clench around me, holding me.
“Yes,” she pants. “There, right there.”
I increase the pace, each thrust a confession. My hand finds her mound, my thumb the little nub above her opening. I press, circle, while I thrust into her. She digs her fingers into my back, her nails leaving red streaks.
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