Page 42 of Sons of Sorrow
“Beautiful,” Sylvain said.
I bit my lips, holding back an embarrassed smile. My ears must have been burning.
He gestured again, his finger beckoning. “Come,” he commanded.
Instinct, arrogance, and old habits told me to resist, but I was powerless. All the flowers in the bath came together, gathering around my shoulders in a gentle crush. They nudged me down the tub toward their master, the water supporting my passage, the blossoms like the softest hands of a hundred little faeries.
Sylvain laughed softly as the flowers delivered me straight into his waiting arms, spinning me around at the last moment so that I had my back to him. I gasped when his cock probed my hole, but its head nudged against my balls, then out past my inner thigh.
I held my breath as I watched him position his cock under mine, both parallel so that he could pleasure both of us at once with long fingers, with huge hands. He pushed his hips forward, sinking slightly into the tub, more and more of his cock grinding against mine. I’d forgotten, somehow, just how huge Sylvain was.
Just like the first time, back in the Oriel of Earth, except not at all. We were facing each other back then, in the pool of water, our bodies, our cocks attuned to the same rhythm, both of us benefiting from every stroke. So clever of him, so efficient.
But this time I was draped across the hardness of his torso, the heat of his body blazing against my back, his hands, his mouth, his hips all working together to maximize my enjoyment. This time I could tell it was all for me. So efficient of him, so generous.
Sylvain’s fingers closed around our cocks, his skin rough, his grip intense. It sent shocks reverberating through my body, this simple act of claiming a part of me, enclosing me with his hand. I bucked forward, desperate for more, but halted, hesitated.
“No, it’s all right,” Sylvain muttered. “Do what your body tells you.”
I obeyed, both my body and my prince of flowers. He guided me forward and I gasped, the angle of our bodies rubbing our cocks even more closely together. I whined, moaned as I thrust into the tight loop of his fingers, the underside of my cock rubbing against the top of his. Sylvain tugged, squeezed, and twisted with his hand, thumbed my nipple with the other.
All the while he muttered intoxicating nothings into my ear, nipping at my neck, my skin. I shuddered against him, holding it all back. He pulled his fingers, his palm all the way to the base of my cock — of both our cocks. His other hand went lower, two hands kneading and stroking both of us at once.
No more holding it together. I broke apart. I threw my head back and moaned, deep and long so it echoed around the walls, bucking and thrusting into Sylvain’s fingers with every last delicious spasm. I collapsed against his torso. He came, too, muscles tensing against me, a living marble statue against my back.
We stayed still for some moments, catching our breath, rebuilding our strength. I turned my head and nuzzled his face, chuckling softly.
“I don’t think we’re doing a very good job of getting ourselves clean.”
Sylvain’s laughter rumbled against my body. He pressed a kiss against my cheek. “Then we’ll just have to try harder. Get soiled, and get clean again, until we get it right.”
We did exactly that, in the water, among the flowers. Over, and over, and over again.
18
“Yes, this is perfect,”I said, sitting right on the edge of the Wispwell. I patted the stones, cool and damp from the Wispwater. “Ember, are you still feeling good about this?”
He planted his hands on his hips as he strutted on the rim of the well, already a big damn hero. That was a yes. Satchel hovered close by, wringing his fingers nervously.
Sylvain placed the parchment on the stone floor and nodded in approval. “This seems to be the best approach. If worse comes to worst, we have immediate access to plenty of Wispwater.”
A snicker came from my side as Evander elbowed me and whispered. “Or someone can grab him and throw him right in the drink. Eh, Locke?”
“Very funny,” I said, squinting at him, then scanning the rest of the courtyard to check that we were all assembled.
The headmasters had ordered the plaza cleared of students and faculty, leaving Dr. Fang in charge of the reading of the parchment. She paced the floor, hands clasped behind her back, overseeing our preparations like a general preparing for battle.
Mr. Brittle was hesitant to leave his post at the library, which was understandable. Also, I wasn’t about to pressure an old man into joining our potential fight against Ember. He’d already done so much for us, researching the parchment and its components.
Both the Hernandez sisters had shown up as well. Luna stood off near the fringes of the courtyard, playing with her earring. Bruna fiddled with her potions, adjusting and readjusting the phials clipped to her belt. Our other sister, Namirah, was best left to fully recover. Ugh. Lucky lady.
“I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” Dr. Fang said, clapping her hands to call for attention. “Ember, I’ll ask one last time. You’re absolutely certain that you want to do this, correct?”
“Positive.” The flames on the tips of Ember’s hair rose higher. He seemed to be standing another inch taller. He thumped his fist against his chest, then leapt from the edge of the well, fluttering his wings to give himself a gentle landing right by the parchment. “Let’s do this.”
Satchel bit on his nails. He could have chewed through his fingers, right down to the bone. The rest of us gathered in a circle around Ember and the parchment. It felt like a ritual, only with one person doing all the work. The littlest and bravest of us all, apparently.
Bruna, I noticed, already had a hand at her waist, fingers cocked. Ready to unholster a bottle of Wispwater to rehydrate and cure Ember, should the need arise.
