Page 40 of Sereis
His mouth moved to my other arm, giving it the same devoted attention. I could feel his need through our bond—not just to possess but to know, to understand every change, to catalog what I'd become. His hands skimmed along my sides, never grasping, just learning the new topography of my body while his mouth continued its worship.
When his tongue traced the frost pattern that collared my throat, I arched off the bed entirely. The sensation was too much and not enough, every nerve ending firing at once while the ache between my thighs became impossible to ignore. My hands found his hair, dark strands sliding through my fingers as I tried to guide him lower, toward where I needed him most.
But Sereis had his own timeline, his own plan. His mouth found my breasts, tongue circling nipples that had become almost painfully sensitive since the transformation. The cool wetness of his attention there made me cry out, my body bowing as pleasure shot straight to my core. He lavished attention on each peak, using teeth and tongue and the subtle chill of his breath to drive me higher.
His hands mapped my thighs, fingertips tracing the frost patterns there while his mouth moved lower across my stomach. Every kiss felt like a brand, like he was claiming territory that was already his but needed the reinforcement of ritual. By the time his fingers brushed against my center—just the lightest touch, barely there—I was trembling with need, my hips lifting desperately toward his hand.
"Please," I gasped, the word torn from my throat. "Sereis, please, I need—"
"I know what you need." His fingers pressed more firmly, finding my clit with unerring accuracy, circling it with just enough pressure to make my vision white out at the edges. My body was already so close, transformed flesh so sensitive that even this simple touch threatened to send me over. "But yourpleasure belongs to me now, little one. You come when I allow it, not before."
His fingers worked with methodical precision, building a rhythm that had my hands fisting in the sheets, my back arching as the pressure built to impossible levels. The aurora canopy above us swirled faster, responding to my climbing arousal, colors shifting toward the warmer end of the spectrum. I was right there, right on the edge, one more stroke would do it—
He pulled his hand away entirely.
The denial hit like a physical blow, making me sob with frustration as my body clenched around nothing, searching for stimulation that wasn't there. Above us, the aurora flared wild, reds and golds mixing with the cooler tones in chaotic patterns that matched my emotional state.
"Not yet," Sereis said, his voice gentle but implacable. "I decide when you fall."
My frustrated sob still hung in the air between us when Sereis shifted position, still kneeling but now studying me with the kind of intensity that made me feel like a manuscript written in a language only he could read. His eyes tracked over my flushed skin, the way my chest heaved with desperate breaths, how my thighs pressed together seeking friction that wouldn't come.
"I want you to feel everything, little one," he said, his voice dropping to that register that bypassed my ears and resonated directly in my bones. "I want to heighten every sensation until you forget everything but me. Until the world becomes nothing but my touch, my will, my decision of when you're allowed release."
From the air beside him—from nowhere, from imagination given form—he drew out restraints that made my breath catch. Not metal or leather or anything so mundane. These were cuffs of living ice, but ice transformed into something impossible. They pulsed with soft internal light, like aurora captured andcompressed into solid form. When he held them up for my inspection, they seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting slightly as if alive.
"These won't hurt," he explained, though his tone suggested he knew that wasn't my fear. "They'll feel like cool silk against your skin, perfectly fitted, impossible to escape. They'll hold you exactly where I want you while I explore what you've become." His eyes met mine, and in them I saw the question he wouldn't voice—would I trust him this much? Would I let him make me this vulnerable?
My answer came without words. I extended my arms toward the starlight bedposts, offering my wrists to him with a gesture that felt like signing my name in trust itself. The smile that curved his lips was subtle but transformative, turning his ethereal beauty into something darker, hungrier.
He secured my left wrist first, the living ice flowing around it like water before solidifying into a perfect fit. The sensation was exactly as he'd promised—cool silk that somehow managed to be both gentle and absolutely unyielding. The cuff attached itself to the bedpost with no visible connection, held by the same will that kept the aurora canopy in place. My right wrist followed, and then I was spread before him, arms pulled wide enough to display me completely but not enough to strain.
The vulnerability of it hit me all at once. I was naked, restrained, completely at his mercy while he remained clothed and in absolute control. The frost patterns on my skin flared brighter in response to my emotional state, creating their own light show that competed with the aurora above. Through our bond, I felt his satisfaction at the sight—his mate, his bonded, trusting him enough to be this exposed.
"Beautiful," he murmured, but his attention had already shifted upward. He rose to his feet with that liquid grace, reaching toward the canopy with deliberate purpose. His fingerspassed through the aurora curtains like they were water, and when he pulled his hand back, he held something that shouldn't have been possible to grasp.
The feather was condensed light and color. It shifted through spectrums as I watched—now green-gold, now purple-silver, now colors that made my eyes water trying to process them. It looked like it weighed nothing, moving with his breath, but I could feel its presence like static electricity, making every hair on my body stand at attention.
"This," Sereis said, twirling it between his fingers so it threw prismatic shadows, "is going to teach you about patience. About anticipation. About how pleasure can be found in the spaces between touches as much as in contact itself."
He started at my throat, where the frost patterns formed their natural collar. The first touch of the feather made me gasp—not from cold or heat but from pure sensation. It was like being touched by light itself, weightless but absolutely present, triggering nerve endings I didn't know existed. He traced the edge of my collar mark with devastating slowness, following each curve and spiral while I tried not to writhe against the restraints.
Down from my throat to my collarbones, the feather painted sensation across my skin with the precision of a master artist. He traced the hollow between them, then out to each shoulder, following the lines of my transformation but never quite touching the patterns themselves. The denial of that direct contact somehow made it worse, made my skin ache for the feather to follow the raised ridges of frost.
When he reached my breasts, I held my breath. But he traced around them, never touching the peaks that ached for contact, painting circles that spiraled inward but never reached center. The light touch on my hypersensitive skin was maddening—toomuch and not enough simultaneously. My nipples hardened to the point of pain, begging for attention he refused to give.
"Please," I whispered, but he only smiled and continued his torture.
The feather traced down my sternum with excruciating slowness. I could feel each individual barb of light as it passed over my skin, leaving trails of sensation that lingered like phantom touches. He drew patterns on my ribs, counted each one with delicate strokes that made me arch and twist. When he reached my stomach, he spent an eternity tracing the frost patterns there, following their spirals but never quite making direct contact with the raised designs.
My hips lifted off the bed, seeking more substantial contact, but he simply pressed his free hand to my hip, holding me still with gentle but implacable pressure. The feather continued its journey, tracing the crease where hip met thigh, dancing along the sensitive skin there while deliberately avoiding where I needed touch most.
"You're dripping," he observed clinically, and the crude truth of it made me flush darker. "Your body begs so prettily, even when your mouth tries to stay silent."
Down my thighs the feather traveled, finding every sensitive spot I didn't know existed. The inside of my knees apparently had nerve endings connected directly to my core, because when he circled them with the aurora feather, I nearly came from that alone. He noticed—of course he noticed—and spent extra time there, watching my face as I fought against the sensation.
My calves received the same methodical attention, the feather tracing patterns that made my toes curl. When he reached my feet, I thought I might escape the torture—feet weren't erogenous zones, weren't connected to the ache between my thighs.
I was wrong.
