Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
“Rusalka,” she gasps. “I can’t. I’m so—”
“I’ve got you, little one." I don’t stop. This is the first of many orgasms, and we both need it too much to stop. “Let go.”
When she comes, it’s with my name on her lips. Again. I slide down her body to settle between her thighs. It’s a good thing she’s interested in staying here permanently, because even after a week, she’s shaken things down to their very foundations. She’s shaken me.
I want to keep her.
19
BELLADONNA
Ididn’t know sex could be like this.
It’s a thought I’ve had more than once since coming to this realm. It’s intense and overwhelming, but there’s joy as well. There’s . . . fun. The delight is there in her low laugh when I push her onto her back and set about exploring her body as thoroughly as she explored mine. It’s there in my glee at making her wings erupt from her back and her clitoris start vibrating from stroking her pussy with my tongue. Everything feels good and nothing feels bad, and I didn’t know it could be like this.
Even outside of my ill-fated personal experience, some things were just known. Sex was something to be endured by women, something done to fulfill your role as a wife and, eventually, mother. Daring to want it with someone who isn’t your husband, isn’t a man at all? Unthinkable.
But, for the first time in my conscious life, there’s barely any thought of sin as I lust, Rusalka sitting up and claiming my mouth, tasting herself there just as I taste myself on her tongue. She tugs me down onto her chest, ignoring my half-hearted protest about crushing her, and gathers me close. I only manage to tense for a few moments before relaxing against her.
“I’ll stay.”
They pause their stroking down my spine. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. Or tomorrow. Or in the next few years. You’ve been pressured and cornered and pushed your entire life. I won’t add to that.”
I think I love you.
I know better than to say the words aloud. It’s too soon for that sort of talk. And more likely, they would tell me that I’m only responding to the first kind and caring person I’ve ever met—maybe add a dose of bonding over trauma talk in the process. Maybe they’d even be right. I don’t know about any of that, only that I feel safe with Rusalka—cherished—in a way I’ve never felt with another person. “I know,” I finally manage. “But I want to stay. I feel more at home here than . . . anywhere else.”
“Then your home this shall be.” They kiss my temple. “We have so much time, little one. Slow down and cherish your days where no one is asking anything of you.”
Except they are, aren’t they? Not explicitly, not anymore, but I know the need this territory has. I understand the basics of warfare, if only vaguely. A baby isn’t a nuke, but the concept’s the same. If everyone has one, the respective territories are less likely to deploy them.
I’ve spent my whole life prepared for the fact that eventually I’d be a mother so some God-fearing man would be able to continue his genetic legacy, so good Christian folks would outnumber the heathens threatening the church’s very way of life. Which is all really gross now that I’m thinking about it with a little distance. Having a baby for a territory of people who have welcomed me without hesitation, who have gone out of their way to ensure I feel just as safe with them as I do with Rusalka? That’s different.
Yes, I haven’t met every person in the territory. But even if the rest of them are jerks, Zhenya and Inna and Danik and Bogdan? The children whose free laughter I hear periodically throughout the day when I’m working in the gardens? They’re all worth saving. They’re worth protecting. I never thought of myself as a protector. The term doesn’t sit easily on my shoulders, but it feels kind of right. I think?
“Belladonna?”
I’ve learned enough in the last week to know that this conversation is better left for another day. I don’t want to argue with Rusalka when we’re having such a wonderful time—especially when we really want the same thing.
I nuzzle her neck. “Sorry, I was gathering wool, or whatever that saying is.” The truth, more or less.
Rusalka draws a spiral at the small of my back. “You’ve had a long day in a series of long days. Rest, Belladonna. You deserve it.”
Their words ping against something deep inside me. I feel like my entire world has been changed since coming here, but there are still issues buried in the center of me that I don’t know how to unpack. I don’t know if I even want to. Apparently the concept of being deserving of rest is one of them.