Page 90 of Satisfied By the Slime
He fills me in one long slide. No adjustment, no pause. He knows exactly what I can take because he can feel what I feel, the stretch and the fullness and the bright spike of pleasure that arcs through my spine.
“Oz.” His name comes out ragged.
He answers by changing the angle, by thickening within me, by pressing his forehead to the curve of my neck. His cockripples against my inner walls, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur.
He swells inside me and I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders, my hips rolling to meet his.
The orgasm builds in waves as his thumb still circles my clit with maddening persistence. The pressure crests and my pussy clenches around him, my whole body seizing as I reach my peak.
He holds me through it, his body shivering with that resonance he gets when he feels me come around his cock.
A knock sounds at the door.
We separate in a tangle of urgency. I yank my skirt down, shove my shirt back into place, run fingers through hair that’s definitely a disaster.
Oz flows off the workbench and reconstitutes into his primary form. The chamomile bottles stand in a perfect row on the drying rack.
Another knock.
“It’s Gram,” I say, and cross tothe door.
She stands on the porch with her wool bag over one arm and her coffee thermos in hand.
Behind her, half-hidden in the shadow of the overhang, a gaunt figure waits.
Paco. The Ridge Walker.
He’s still shy about doorways, still hovers at thresholds like he needs permission for every inch of space he occupies. But he’s here, which is more than he managed for the first three months after the mine rescue.
“Took you long enough,” Gram says, pushing past me. “Paco, come in. She doesn’t bite.”
Paco ducks through the doorframe, his angular shoulders hunching to clear the jamb. His pale green luminescence pulses once, a flicker of greeting, and his dark eyes find mine.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“You just got here.”
“I can smell it.”
Gram settles onto the worn couch, already pulling rovingfrom her bag. “He knows what he likes, Maisie. Don’t make him beg.”
I head for the kitchen, stepping around Oz, who has positioned himself near the workbench with the casual stillness of someone who absolutely didn’t just have his hands up my skirt.
I don’t look at him. If I look at him, I’ll blush, and Gram misses nothing.
The coffee pot is still warm. I pour a cup for Paco, keeping it bitter, just the way he likes it, and carry it back. He takes it with both hands, his long fingers curling around the ceramic, and makes a sound that borders on reverent.
“Good,” he says, and drinks.
Gram’s tools click. She’s felting something green, a mini-Paco, from the looks of it. Her hands haven’t stopped moving since she sat down. “Paco had a question about your oat bars. He wants to know if you’ll make the unscented kind again.”
“The ones for sensitive skin?”
He nods, still cradling the coffee. “The desert dries me out. Your soap helps.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. The Ridge Walker—Paco—using my soap. Coming to my door and asking for it by name. I nod. “I’ll put a batch on tomorrow’s list.”
A knock sounds at the door. This one comes fast and impatient, three quick raps in succession.
