Page 12 of Mischief Maker
I turn around quickly to walk away, hoping to hide the rather lascivious tent under my loincloth.
“Oh, Kireth?”
I remain fixed, keeping my body angled away from her line of sight. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry about last night. The bed, if you want it, is all yours.”
Bah. She is a kind soul, if obtuse. I just grunt and walk into the house, too aroused to even look over my shoulder in her direction.
With my magic so exhausted, my body is ready to rest. I don’t bother to invent an excuse to stumble up the stairs and fall into the bed. With Faela still outside, I stroke my cock just long enough to spurt out across my belly, thinking of her while trying my hardest not to think of her. It’s enough of a release that I can fall asleep.
Chapter Five
Faela
I wonder if I offended Kireth in some way. I was just grateful for what he did—for using his magic to benefit me—but touching him seemed to have set him off, and his demeanor was like a door slamming closed.
Shit. I wish I hadn’t forgotten myself that way, just when it seemed like things were going better between us.
Still, after seeing what his magic was able to accomplish in the field, I’m overcome with a lightness, an optimism that I barely recognize. I haven’t felt this way in years, not since before Mother died. Things were falling apart then, too, it simply wasn’t in free fall. This, though, reminds me of being a child, when Father was still around and would pick me up and swing me in his arms in a wide circle, letting my legs fly through the air.
There is hope after all.
That night, I pause at the open door leading into Mother’s old room, where an immortal sleeps like the dead on the bed. He’s beautiful, yes. I wasn’t lying when I said that before. Ravishing, really, if I separate who he is from what he looks like.
But he is a god, an immortal, a demon. One does not think thoughts like that about gods and immortals and demons. Yet I’m thinking them anyway as I go into my bedroom and light a candle, then lift off my dress and replace it with my slip. There is an ache somewhere deep inside me that thinks intently of Kireth’s face, of his lips opening and closing with each sleeping breath, and wishes for one thing.
More.
Knowing that he is unconscious in the next room, my hand slips down my belly, under the skirt. It’s not often that I feel a need to touch myself, but tonight, I am burning between my thighs. I remember the softness of Kireth’s skin and the hardness of his lithe muscles as I threw my arms around him, and my hunger grows.
I run a finger over my sensitive bead, and my body twitches in response. Oh, am I tense with need. Another few strokes and my legs are shaking, my hips lifting off the bed into my hand. When I slide my palm down, wetness coats my fingertips. I imagine Kireth touching me there and my pleasure builds, the ache growing stronger. Rubbing myself furiously, I bite back a moan, and it takes only a few more moments for me to reach my finish.
I collapse to the bed, spent, feeling utterly filthy at how I’m behaving. A god would never touch me that way. I must banish it from my mind.
The seedlings have sprouted even taller the next morning, and I cannot help but cry out my excitement. Something is growing again, and I’m filled to bursting with hope. I give Kireth a specific chore to do—milk all the animals—and he does it without complaint. That night, I find the pails all stacked up in the barn in the shape of a penis, but that was the most mischief he caused today.
For dinner, I bring out lots of cheese and the rest of the bread, and afterward, I ask Kireth to join me while I work on repairing the tiller.
“Do you know what’s wrong?” he asks, plopping on the ground nearby while I fiddle with a joint.
“I’m figuring it out. I’ve never fixed anything before, but I understand how all the pieces work, so I should be able to do it with some experimentation.”
He hums, leaning back on his hands to watch as I mess with each connection point, testing as I go. As the sun goes down, Petal joins us, and she seems to have taken a shine to Kireth, sprawling across his lap. For a moment, everything feels right, the god’s wild hair and curled horns bathed in orange light, the sheep and cattle all bundled up tight for the night. The air is fresh and warm, not hot, and I wish this could last.
“It’s not that bolt,” Kireth says after a while, his voice irritated. Petal rolls over and whines as he gets up and approaches my project. “It’s this one.” He snatches the wrench from me and applies it to a different attachment, tightening the nut. When he pushes on it, it no longer wobbles but holds steady and firm.
He didn’t have to do that. No one asked him to, but he helped me anyway, without even requiring me to use a task.
“Thank you.” I resist touching him again because he didn’t seem to like that much last time. “Your help means a lot to me.”
With a scoff, Kireth returns to his former position, just observing. “I got annoyed watching you trying to fix the wrong thing.”
Of course, that was all. But I can’t help wondering if there’s more to him than a mercurial, immortal spirit.
Kireth
I was partially telling the truth. It grated on my nerves to watch her try to fix the wrong problem. But a steadily growing, deeper part of me wanted to see her succeed. To accomplish something she’s set out to do, and get that big, wide smile on her face that speaks of a time before, when her life was easier and sweeter.
