Page 93 of Ruby
I let my tongue travel down her neck when she arches it to the side, invitation clear. Her hands rise to my brow ridges and she pushes me lower until my tongue rasps against a soft mound with a pebbled center. I elicit another whine when my tongue darts out to lick her chest, concentrating on the center.
“Oh,” she gasps, her hands coming up to grab at the feathers on my head.
“That’s so good. I thought I lost feeling there forever,” she says between gasps.
“What called?” I ask, my coil twitching with each shift of her lower body against my chest.
“Breasts,” she says, breath labored as I lick her again.
After several more long licks, I pull back, eager to see all of her again, and how she reacts to my touch.
I pull her hand away from my plume before she does damage and pin both of them above her with my left upper arm, letting the talons of the other three move against her skin while I concentrate on her beautifulbreastswith my left lower arm and my right upper one, testing how she likes the slow graze of my rougher skin against the tight peaks.
From the sharpness of her breathing, I know she likes what I am doing, and so I continue my movements at herbreasts, then use my remaining arm to keep exploring.
My lower right palm starts wandering. Down her side, along her hip, from her outer to inner thigh and I find that her wetness hasleaked even lower. I follow the trail up as I trace patterns on her thigh and then I reach the heat between her legs.
I touch her there with a knuckle, keeping my talons carefully away from such a tender area, then move away again, back to making patterns on her skin.
She lets out a grunt of complaint but it is soon stopped by a sharp intake of breath when I move my head back down to her chest, eager to taste her again.
37
Ani
As someone who has two hands, one wouldn’t think of the utility of four. However, his fingers are far more dexterous than expected, his touch feeling like it’s all over me, the slide of claws making my heart race.
I let out a moan and before it is all the way up my throat I hate it, cutting it off before it can fully bloom. It’s the practiced sound. The one that’s part of a mask I don’t want to use ever again.
For a long moment all I can do is panic as I try to think of what to put in its place.
Who am I?Who the fuck… am I?
“What do wrong?” Szhe’ka asks, letting my hands go and stopping me before the galloping thoughts can take over.
“Not you,” I sing, then gulp, skin prickling as I think of a way to explain, wondering if he will judge me. I’m about to switchlanguages so I can move through the concept faster, but then I realize I don’t have to. That this beautiful, slow language I have been fighting against already holds the explanation, and only with a few words.
“Wrong song for new feathers,” I intone.
He lets out a hum of understanding, cocking his head to the side. “We make new song,” he lilts. “Your melody, my harmony.”
Is it really that simple?
“Not just now. What melody me? Which feathers mine?” I ask, heart pounding as I sing out the many notes it takes to ask.
He runs a gentle claw down the side of my neck as he ponders my questions. “One note goes to next note. Last note dies. Use again if good for song. Only then matters.”
I blink slowly, processing. He touches me gently, not rushing me, simply waiting for me to sing again. To set our direction. There is no expectation here.
A practiced moan will not be what he expects. There is no expectation. Nothing to act out. We are making this up together as we go along.
As I pull in a long, slow breath it occurs to me that I could stop all of this right now if I wanted. He wouldn’t pressure me or feed me lines about blue balls.
That thought makes my lip twitch, taking in his long blue and green feathers. It’s possible his balls are permanently blue. Witha small shake of my head I throw off the mental side trail and think of what he said.
“Song can change,” I trill, a quaver in my voice.
“Yes. And song can repeat. Still your melody,” he sings, harmonics communicating his firm belief as he strokes my side.
