Page 108 of Heart Cradle
Eiran stared like a man undone. “Gods above. Look at you, using your magic so well.”
“I had…inspiration.” Maeve purred with an exaggerated wink.
He reached for her. “Come here.”
Maeve climbed into his lap, knees straddling his thighs, their bare skin touching, sticking with heat. Their mouths met in a kiss that burned through every vein, slow at first, savouring, tasting and teasing, then frantic, teeth, tongue and fire. She ground down against him, feeling him hard beneath her, and a moan slipped from her lips as his hands gripped her backside, guiding her movements.
“Eiran…” she whispered.
He tipped his head back, breath ragged. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“Already have.”
Their bodies moved like water and flame, and then he lifted her slightly, lined himself up, and she sank down onto him with a low, broken sound. They both stilled at the sensation, deep, full and overwhelming. Her hands braced on his shoulders and his mouth fell open as she rolled her hips, riding him slowly, setting a rhythm that was both reverent and obscene.
“You feel like fucking starlight,” he breathed. “Like heat and heaven and everything I’ve ever wanted.”
Maeve leaned in, teeth grazing his jaw. “Shhh, you talk too much.”
“Then shut me up.”
She did, with her mouth, her hips and the way she clenched around him, tight, wet and perfect. The grove pulsed with their rhythm, magic rising like mist around them.
The Fae-Fire blazed in her blood, making every touch an ache, every thrust an aftershock and he flipped her onto the mossy earth, pressed her down beneath him, and devoured her. His mouth found her breasts, her throat and her thighs. He licked her centre, slow and deliberate and she cried out, her back bowing and her fingers clawing at the ground as stars seemed to burst behind her eyes. It felt like he would never stop and she pleaded that it wouldn’t. When she came, it was with a bawl muffled against her own arm. He kissed her through it, holding her still and murmuring things he’d never say in daylight. She trembled beneath him, undone and shaking and then he moved, lifting and spinning her to the tree, pressing her chest to the bark so hard she gasped. Her skin scraped on the rough wood, fingers splaying wide as he kicked her legs apart with a growl.
“Stay just like that,” he growled.
The moment she obeyed, he let out a visceral sound, gripped her hips and then he drove into her, deep, brutal and entirely perfect. Maeve choked on a scream as her body shoved forwards with the force. The tree shook with it, moss scattering down like rain as he fucked her, rough, fast and savage. His cock plunged deep, every stroke a claim, every thrust a growl turned flesh.
“Fuck, Maeve,” he snarled, breath hot against her neck. “So tight, so fucking wet. Mine.”
“Yours Eiran…” She gasped, but the words broke apart as he yanked her back onto him, using her body like it was made to be taken like this.
His hand wrapped in her hair, pulling her head back so he could bite her neck, hard. Her cry cracked the air but he didn’t stop, he was relentless. One hand holding her down by the neck, the other sliding between her thighs to rub her clit in fast, brutal circles. She bucked, whimpered, sobbed with how badly she needed it, and he gave it to her. Every filthy, desperate second of it. She came with a shout, body convulsing, magic ripping through the grove like a wave, shaking the leaves and lighting the roots. Her legs collapsed, but he held her up, still fucking into her like an animal, wild and unforgiving.
“Not done,” he growled. “Not until I break you.”
He lifted one leg up onto the root for better leverage and pounded into her, his cock so deep, she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but take it and love it and she came again with a moan, her voice gone raw. He followed with a roar, slamming into her and spilling deep, hips jerking as he emptied inside her, teeth sinking into her shoulder and they stayed like that, shaking and wrecked.
Sweat dripped and her legs barely held. When he finally pulled out, she whimpered, empty, aching and used. He caught her, dragging her down into the moss with him. He wrapped around her from behind, chest heaving and breath hot on her neck. Maeve was marked by bark, marked by him and the grove still pulsed with their magic, no longer sacred, but claimed.
The Fae-Fire was cruel in its pleasure, it kept them aching, hungry and wanting. He pushed her onto her back and kissed her until she was writhing again, until she sat astride him, greedily guiding him back inside, slick, sore, and needing. She rode him hard, breath ragged and hair wild. He lifted her by the hips and thrust up into her, watching her fall apart over and over again. When they finally collapsed beneath the moon-drenched branches, bodies tangled, hearts still racing, Maeve turned her face into his neck.
“Next time,” she whispered hoarsely, “I’m bringing the bottle.”
Eiran laughed, breathless. “You’re the only intoxicant I’ll ever need.”
?????
Eiran and Maeve, deliciously sore, made their way back to the Keep slowly, hand in hand, the air now warm and laced with lilac. The celebration inside still pulsed with energy, distant music echoing faintly through the tall stone corridors, but just beyond the great hall’s doors, the terrace opened wide into the night. There, leaning casually against the stone balustrade stood Fenric and Laren. Close, but not touching. Their heads were bent towards one another, voices low and eyes bright with whatever quiet truth lived between them. Maeve slowed her steps, tugging lightly on Eiran’s hand. “What are they smoking? I saw those in the tavern, and I noticed Bran uses a pipe.”
Eiran followed her gaze, then gave a soft huff of amusement. “They’re called pixie-burns,” he said. “Same thing as human cigarettes. Not as deadly though, just enough to loosen the jaw and lighten the mood. Bran prefers it in a pipe, we take the piss but he insists.”
Maeve watched as Laren passed the slim, glittering roll back to Fenric, her fingers brushing his, the motion casual but full of subtext. Smoke shimmered between them, faintly green in the moonlight.
“What’s the story there?” she asked.
Eiran didn’t answer at first. Just watched them with a look that was more fond than exasperated. “They’re in love,” he said finally. “Fenric’s been besotted for years. Laren too, though she’d never admit it. He askedher to bind over a century ago, she refused, told him she needed time and adventure. She told him to move on, that she wouldn’t hold him.”
