Page 80 of The Weaver

Ahmya stared into his crimson eyes as she continued to slowly ride him, taking him as deep as she could. Each stroke fed that burning desire in her core, that need for more. This was what she had hoped for. What she’d dreamed of. This was not just the sensation, but the closeness—the intimacy—she’d craved for so long.

And she was sharing it with Rekosh.

“Yours,” she moaned breathlessly. Her lashes fluttered, but she kept her eyes open, unwilling to look away from him.

CHAPTER 19

Mine.

The word echoed through Rekosh’s head like a whisper along one of Takarahl’s tunnels, louder and louder with every bounce. It was more than a word—it was a feeling, an instinct, a drive beyond any he’d experienced.

Ahmya was his. Finally, she was his, just as she’d always been, just as she always would be.

Fire blazed through his limbs, making his hide itch and his muscles ache. He needed more, more, more, all of her and then more again. Their bodies were connected now, but he needed their heartsthreads to intertwine, their hearts to beat as one, their spirits to weave together, never again to be separated.

Mine. My beautiful, clever, passionate, gentle mate. My courageous little flower.

Every sensation was heightened. He could feel each blade of grass beneath him, whispering against his hide. Could feel the bite of the silk bindings on his upper wrists, the burn in his muscles as he continued to fight their hold. He could feel her warm skin against his hide, soft and yielding, and the musclesof her thighs flexing, could feel her nails digging into his chest. Even the lingering pain of his wounds somehow added to the thrill.

He could feel her heart beating and her body trembling.

But above all else, he felt the grip of Ahmya’s tight, wet slit, hot as molten gold. Felt it clenching, drawing him in, as hungry for this connection as he was. It wept nectar, the taste of which remained upon his tongue, its sweetness beyond compare, beyond words.

Rekosh forced his eyes to hers. He stared into those dark, lustrous pools, stared into the red reflections of his own overwhelming pleasure.

With a shaky breath, Ahmya lifted her hips and lowered herself once more to take him deeper, easing over the bulge at his base.

A shudder wracked him. He tightened his grip on her, dragging her down farther.

“Rekosh…” she moaned, eyelids drifting shut. Her head fell back, lips parting as she arched her back and rose over him again, hair swaying with her graceful movements. Tiny droplets of sweat glittered on her sun-dappled skin. Her taut brown nipples beckoned him, but his restraints prevented him from reaching them with his tongue.

He inhaled, filling his lungs with fiery air. If the jungle scents were upon it, he detected none of them—there was only Ahmya’s alluring fragrance permeating him, enwrapping him like a cocoon, maddeningly potent with her arousal.

He’d waited so long for this. For her. He’d tried so hard to hold back the mating frenzy, to experience this moment with Ahmya with a clear mind, to relish this time with his delectable little mate. To be gentle, and to give her all possible pleasure.

But what he’d heard, what he’d seen, had not prepared him for the ferocity of the frenzy.

With Ahmya’s scent dominating the air, with her body moving atop his, with her pussy gripping his stem, devouring him, he could not resist. His mind was unraveling, the threads coming undone faster and faster with each beat of his hearts.

Rekosh barely felt the ropes biting into his wrists, barely heard the roots cracking behind him as they gave way to his exertion. He barely noticed his bruising grip on her hips, or that he was controlling her movements, quickening her pace. Pleasure crashed through him with each slide of her hot slit along his length, flaring whenever she slammed down on him. And he thrust up to meet her every time, burying himself a little deeper, dragging throaty, ragged gasps from her.

But it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t deep enough, fast enough, fierce enough. Each wave of sensation only exacerbated his need. He needed to bind her in his silk. Needed to claim her. Needed to rut. He needed to put his mark on her, plant his seed within her, and make himself one with her forever.

“My flower,” he rasped.

Ahmya opened her eyes and looked at him.

“Forgive me.” The final strands of self-control within Rekosh tore.

With a snarl, he threw all his strength against the remaining ropes. The roots crunched and snapped, finally breaking, and Rekosh’s body jerked forward.

He clutched Ahmya tight against him with his claspers and lower arms, tearing gouges in the ground with his legs as he shoved up and flipped their positions so she lay beneath him and he was braced over her.

So she was trapped.

She stared up at him with wide, shocked eyes.

Baring his teeth, he slammed his pelvis forward, thrusting his stem deeper into her.

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