Page 13 of Accidentally Ever After
“So,” I said, trying to sound more nonchalant than I felt, “wing etiquette for intimate partners. Is this going to be on the test?”
His lips curved. “There is no test, Blake. Though I do hope you’ll find the information… useful.”
The way he said my name—like he was savoring it—made heat rise to my face.
“Among my kind,” he began, his tone shifting to something more instructional, “wings are not merely appendages for flight. They are extensions of our emotional and physical selves. Highly sensitive and deeply connected to our… pleasure centers.”
“Yeah, I kind of got that in the grotto,” I said, remembering how he’d responded when I touched his wing.
A violet flush spread across his cheekbones. “Indeed. What you may not understand is the significance of wing-touching between partners. It is considered the most intimate form of contact—more intimate even than traditional sexual acts.”
“More intimate than sex?” I asked, skeptical.
“Think of it this way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “Your human sexual organs are sensitive, yes, but they are designed for sexual contact. Wings are not. They are vulnerable, essential for survival and mobility. To allow another to touch them is to place absolute trust in that person.”
Put that way, it made sense. “So when I touched your wing in the grotto…”
“You were, in fairy terms, being extremely forward,” he finished, though his expression held amusement rather than censure. “Not that I objected.”
“Good to know I was basically groping you in public,” I said with a groan. “Add that to the list of cultural faux pas.”
“The moonbloom grotto is hardly public,” he corrected. “And I invited the contact by extending my wing to you first—a clear invitation in our culture.”
“Oh.” I considered this. “So what are the rules here? When is wing-touching appropriate?”
Caelen’s expression grew more serious. “Between committed partners, wing-touching is reserved for private moments. The wings themselves have… zones… of varying sensitivity.” His own wings shifted behind him as if responding to the topic. “The base where they join the back is most intimate, while the outer edges are less so, though still sensitive.”
“And in public?”
“A brief, formal touch of greeting between bonded partners is acceptable—typically a brush of fingertips against the outer edge, like so.” He extended one wing slightly and demonstrated the motion with his own hand. “Anything more would be considered inappropriate for public view.”
I nodded, fascinated despite myself. “That makes sense. Like how humans might hold hands or share a quick kiss in public, but save the more intimate stuff for private.”
“Precisely,” he said, looking pleased at my understanding. “In private, however…” His voice dropped lower, and his wings extended slightly. “In private, wings can be the center of extremely pleasurable experiences.”
The temperature in the room seemed to rise several degrees. “Is that so?”
“Would you like me to demonstrate?” he asked, his eyes darkening to that indigo that made my stomach flip.
This was the moment to back away, to maintain the distance I’d been insisting on. Instead, I heard myself say, “Yes.”
Caelen rose from his seat in one fluid motion and moved to sit beside me on the wide armchair, his body angled toward mine. This close, I could see the subtle patterns on his skin shimmering slightly, the way his pupils had expanded, leaving just a rim of violet.
“May I have your hand?” he asked softly.
I extended my hand, trying to ignore how it trembled slightly. He took it in his, his skin cool against mine, then slowly guided it toward his extended wing.
“The outer edge,” he explained, his voice husky, “is sensitive but not overwhelmingly so. Like this.”
He guided my fingers to brush against the edge of his wing—that delicate, translucent membrane that caught the light in hypnotic patterns. Even this light contact made him inhale sharply, his eyes fluttering.
“Good?” I asked, mesmerized by his reaction.
“Very,” he breathed. “You may explore, if you wish.”
Emboldened, I let my fingers trace the edge of his wing more deliberately, following the graceful curve. The membrane felt impossibly soft—like the finest silk but warm and somehow alive, thrumming with energy beneath my touch.
Caelen’s breathing deepened, his eyes half-closed in obvious pleasure. “The sensitivity increases as you move inward,” he murmured.
