Page 25 of Moth to Her Flame

“Never.” The word carries every ounce of protective instinct surging through my system.

“Then that’s enough.” Her knuckles trace a gentle line down my cheek, and my wings explode with golden light. “The rest… we’ll figure out as we go.”

Another drone passes outside, but I barely notice. All my focus narrows to her touch, her trust, her amazing courage in choosing this path.

“We should start packing,” she says finally, though she makes no move to pull away.

“In a minute.” My wing embraces her more tightly, tugging her even closer. “Let me just… let me hold you? While you’re still choosing it freely?” I don’t say it out loud, but I’m wondering when that will inevitably change and she’ll go back to being terrified and repulsed by me again.

“Choices go both ways,” she says softly, fingers brushing my antennae. “And I’m making mine.”

My wings glow brighter at her touch. She’s right. Some choices belong to us both.

Chapter Nineteen

Chelsea

It’s after seven when my stomach finally reminds me that no matter how delicious, breakfast was hours ago. Surrounded by half-packed boxes and piles of files, the simple act of making dinner feels surreally normal.

“Need help?” Riven appears in the arched kitchen doorway. Though he’s lounging against one side of it, his presence somehow fills the space.

“I’ve got it.” Pulling canned chicken from the pantry provides an excuse not to stare at how the dusky light plays across his wings, highlighting the brown and golden moth-like “eyes” that have begun to fascinate me. “But you could keep me company.”

The chicken salad comes together quickly—a dash of mayo, some chopped celery, and a few raisins (after asking him if my odd addition met with his approval). Simple comfort food for a decidedly uncomfortable day. A bowl of perfectly ripe peaches on the counter catches my eye, their sweet scent shouting the best things about autumn.

“These are perfectly ripe. I got them the other day from a roadside stand. They’re straight from Palisades.” People come from other states for Palisades peaches. When they’re ripe? There’s nothing better.

When we settle at the table, Riven reaches for a peach before touching his sandwich. “These are my favorite,” he admits, turning the fruit in his hands. “The scent alone…”

His antennae quiver slightly as he brings it to his face, inhaling deeply. The gesture is oddly sensual, making something warm unfurl in my stomach.

Then he takes his first bite, and my world tilts sideways.

I’ve never seen his proboscis before. It emerges from behind sharp teeth—not a typical tongue, but something more elegant, more foreign. Delicate. Precise. It caresses the peach’s fuzzy skin before dipping into the open flesh where he took his first bite. I watch, mesmerized, as he draws in the juice, as though through a straw, with obvious relish.

Heat floods my face as I watch, transfixed. His eyes close in pleasure as that appendage explores the fruit’s bounty, seekingthe sweetest spots with devastating accuracy. Juice trails down his chin, and his proboscis darts out to catch it in a motion that makes my thighs clench.

A small sound of appreciation rumbles from his chest. The noise shoots straight through me, igniting places I didn’t know couldburnfrom just watching someone eat.

His next bite is slower, more deliberate. That alien tongue maps the peach’s contours with intense focus, drawing out the moment until I’m practically squirming in my chair. When juice drips onto his fingers, he cleans them with the same meticulous attention, and my imagination explodes with thoughts of what else that talented appendage might do.

My breathing turns shallow as he works his way around the fruit. Each lap of his proboscis, each tiny sound of pleasure—both from the graceful sucks of his tendril-like tongue as well as the guttural moans of his enjoyment—builds a tension that has nothing to do with hunger—at least not for food.

When did the kitchen get so warm? I control my urge to fan myself, not wanting to draw his attention from that peach. I’m enjoying the show too much.

His wings shimmer with subtle light, creating patterns that dance across the table between us. They mirror my racing pulse, or perhaps my pulse mirrors them. Everything narrows to the sight of that incredible tongue exploring sweet flesh, the sound of his quiet enjoyment, the way his throat works as he swallows.

The peach’s scent mingles with his unique fragrance—something wild and electric, like ozone before a storm. The combination is intoxicating, making my head spin with desire.

His next bite is positively indecent—sensual, and devastatingly thorough. My fork clatters against my plate as I drop it, and his eyes flare wide at the sound.

The moment our gazes lock, everything changes.

His pupils dilate as understanding dawns. His proboscis retreats, but not before one last, deliberate caress of the fruit that makes me bite back a whimper.

“Something wrong with my nectar probe?” His voice drops lower, rougher. Deliberate.

Nectar probe? Seriously? Is he messing with me? That’s just too… erotic.

---