Page 98 of Kiss the Fae

Slowly, the Fae explores my face, traveling from the bump of my chin to the slope of my nose. His other hand ghosts over my right cheekbone, then traces my left eyebrow with his thumb. Those flutist fingers chart a riveted path along my hairline and down to my temples, where the loose feather dangles from my mask. He caresses it, remembering, rediscovering.

A marveled hiss escapes him, and I release a teary laugh, because yeah. It’s me.

“Lark,” he breathes in wonder.

My heart detonates inside my ribs. I nod and blubber, “Cerule—”

But his mouth swallows the word. His lips catch mine, slanting them together in a molten kiss. My mouth clutches on to his, buckling beneath him. Our tongues pitch forward, hooking onto one another with desperate jolts.

Cerulean licks into me, the rhythm of his tongue urging a mewl from my throat. It rumbles into the space and incites his own rasping groan. My hands fly into his hair, the tip of his blue feather swatting the top of my breast.

Our mouths switch angles, the kiss smoldering. But it’s not enough.

He agrees. The ground slips beneath my feet. Cerulean hefts me off the floor and braces me hard against the twig bars. My legs link around his waist, my fingers carve through his roots, and my thighs span his hips.

A pair of devious lips clamp on to the crook of my neck and—oh, Fables—draws on my flesh. I slump against the leafy wall. My head falls back, my mouth parting on a silent moan, the surrounding black amplifying my sensitivity.

Cerulean sucks me into the hot cavern of his mouth until I’m writhing against his firm length. Pulling back, he plants open mouth kisses up my throat, then drags his tongue under my jaw. I whine, damn near liquifying in his arms.

On an eager hum, he sinks into my mouth again, his pleasure prickling my skin from scalp to toes. We abandon words. Without hesitation, we leap over truths and questions and answers and reasons and explanations. There’s so much to say, but not now—hell, not now—because there’s way too much to feel.

The cleft between my legs wants more. The stiff ridge between his hipbones wants more.

At this rate, I’ll be riding his cock up against this partition, right outside the masquerade. This has to end, but it can’t end, because we won’t let it end. I’ve dreamt of this for nine years and need a reunion. If only for tonight, I want what we never got to enjoy. In these brief hours, I want to share a history with him, one that lasts more than thirteen days.

A history of quiet nights and loud nights, with games and fights, with laughter and secrets. A history of storytelling and truth-telling. A history without humans or Faeries. A history that leads to this.

I want his naked hips swinging in between mine. I want his clever mouth losing control. I want our bodies stressed out. I want our moans overlapping, working together.

But not here. As if he’d heard me, Cerulean breaks away. We suck in air, our heartbeats colliding. I scan the black for his face and know he’s doing the same.

Masked and in darkness, we return to that forge where we met.

Masked and in darkness, we finally see each other.

Cerulean drags his mouth against mine. “Come with me.”

His lilting accent sends a gust of excitement flying through my stomach. He reaches behind me, sweeps aside the curtain with his free hand, and leans forward to survey the vacant corridor. Torchlight blooms into the space, illuminating the fringe of his mask. Then he moves with swift intention, threading our fingers together and leading me down a series of curving, puzzling passages.

At last, we emerge into the wild, where the Middle Moon leaks chalky white onto the rowan trees. I glance over my shoulder. The colossal building stretches into the hemisphere. Under different circumstances, I’d have loved to stay there.

Instead, we leave The Night Aviary behind. The fusion of flutes and pipes fades. With him moving slightly ahead of me, I glimpse his hair brushing the coat’s high collar. The garment’s hem flaps against his long limbs, and my feathered gown hastens over the stones.

Cerulean doesn’t glance back, but he does clasp our hands tighter. He strides down the path as if harassed, rushing to escape something—or to reach it.

What would happen if I made him turn around? How strong is his self-control? What would it take to get him to snap?

I slide my thumb across his. His pace quickens.

Good. Misery loves company. Let him be riled up, so then I won’t be the only one…what is he doing?

Cerulean pauses before the bridge and turns to me with a not-so-guilty smirk. Twin expanses of obsidian-blue flare from his back. The screens splay wide, lithesome and coated in feathers the same shade as his hair.

I stumble in place, my mouth dropping open. Wings. Cerulean has fucking wings.

But I’ve seen his naked back. There were no signs of them, no slits or anything.

Flabbergasted, I stammer, “But…but when I first got here, you said…dammit, you said you didn’t have wings.”

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