Page 34 of Healing His Mate

There is such agony in her voice that I drop my bowl and rush to her side. “How can I help?” I ask, looking over her small frame in a panic. “Shall I massage it?”

Slowly, her mouth stretches into a satisfied grin as she reaches up and swipes a red blob across the tip of my nose. “I win.”

I chuckle at her smugness. “You do not play fair.”

She stretches her body and casually puts her bvatee-covered hands behind her head. “I do not seek recognition for honor. I merely seek victory.”

“And victory you claimed,” I tell her, offering my hand. She takes it, and I pull us both to our feet. Nalba takes a step closer, her longing gaze focused on my lips. Another step, and our hands are still clasped as she traps them between our bodies.

We are both covered in bvatee––our clothes, our manes, and every exposed speck of skin. Yet, I have never found her more breathtaking.

The side of her mouth curls up slightly as she drops my hand and brushes a loose strand from my mane off my cheek. Just as she wraps her arms around my neck, closing the space between us, the clump of bvatee that was covering my nose falls, landing on her chin with aglop.

It ruins the moment.

We both laugh as we look down at ourselves, then around the room at the mess we have made. “I am going to wash,” she says.

“Ah, yes,” I reply, looking toward the door. “I shoul–”

“No,” she says, interjecting. Her cheeks flush. “Stay. You can use the wash box after me.”

“I, uh, suppose I could,” I reply. Her request catches me off guard. Though I do have a change of clothes stashed away among my tools. I am a careful cook, but even I am not immune to spills and stains. And after our syrup play the previous day, I must remain prepared to get messy. “Then I shall clean up around here until you are done.”

She smiles at me as she saunters toward the stairs that lead up to the second level where her bedroom and washroom are located. Tossing a towel over her shoulder, I catch it and begin wiping the food off my face and neck. Once the largest chunks of bvateeare gone, I rinse the towel beneath the spigot, wring out the excess water, and start scrubbing away the mess.

And what a mess we made.

The food battle could not have lasted more than a handful of minutes, and in that time, we covered her shop with bvatee.It is impressive.

By the time Nalba descends the stairs, wearing only a tunic, I have just finished wiping the tables. I was about to begin on the floors and shelving unit, but her long, muscular legs are bare, her shiny, black mane is wet, and her skin glows like the sun.

“It is fine,” she tells me as she takes the towel from my hand. “I shall take over from here.” Her eyes sparkle with need, and her smile steals the breath from my lungs. “Go wash.”

“Very well,” I mumble, distracted by her beauty. Although, when am I not? “Uh, I am going to . . .” I trail off as I pull my clothes from a bag between two of the metal boxes at my workstation. “I shall return.” I wave awkwardly as I pass by her.

She chuckles, though I can tell it is amusement and not mockery. The washroom is a cloud of hot steam as I enter. Stripping my clothes off, I let out a sigh as the thick mist of the room hits my skin. The wash box is a tight fit. It accommodates my height, but I cannot turn around without one or both of my shoulders brushing against the sides.

Ah, well. It will get the job done.

Images of Nalba flood my mind as I scrub away the hardening crust-like patches of our meal.

She almost kissed me.

If the bvatee had not fallen off my nose at the worst possible moment, would we be a tangled heap of limbs rolling around on the floor of her shop? Would I be deep inside her body right now, filling her sweet cunt just the way she likes?

Or would she have stopped it from going further than a kiss?

Worse, would I have been the one to stop it?

My hand finds my cock as I imagine her supple, lean body pressed against mine.

Using the soap she has in a small bottle in the corner of the wash box, I lather my hand and stroke up and down my length.

I recall the way her body shook as I licked along her pretty folds coated in b’fiko syrup, and the thrust of my tongue inside her tight, wet cunt. Her soft lips parted in a silent scream. The way her thick thighs squeezed the sides of my head.

Groaning, I press my forehead against the wall as hot water runs down my neck and my backside. I tighten my grip as I stroke up and over the head before jerking my hand back down. Picking up the pace, I continue to fuck my hand––my hips bucking as the memory of Nalba’s nectar floods my tongue.

Her name leaves my lips in a growl as I jerk my length faster, harder. I see the anguished look on Nalba’s face as she got closer to the edge. She let out a cry when I replaced my tongue with my fingers and rose to kiss her lips. She thought I was done with her. How wrong she was.

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