Chapter 12: The Marking Moon

The moon came through the skylight over his bed and laid a white square on the quilt.

Down in the valley, the pack's howls rose and fell, the pairs calling to the Stone.

Neither of us answered.

I was on my back with my silver hair spread across his pillow.

He was kneeling between my open thighs, naked, with moonlight on his shoulders.

"Next time," I said, "you said you'd be on your knees."

"I am on my knees."

"You know what I mean."

He smiled, slow and wicked.

He bent and kissed the inside of my knee, then my thigh, then higher.

He kissed me there through the thin cotton of my underwear, hot breath and the press of his mouth.

I shut my eyes.

"Take them off," I said.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and drew them down my legs.

He kissed my hip bone and my belly.

He kissed the soft curve below my navel, over and over, until I was laughing and squirming.

"You like that."

"I like all of it."

"I'm going to take my time."

"You'd better."

He parted me with his thumbs and put his mouth on me.

It was slow.

He licked long and deep with the flat of his tongue.

Then he used the tip, until I was gasping at the ceiling.

He worked in a rhythm that built and eased and built again.

I fisted my hands in the quilt.

"Gunnar."

"Mm."

"Two fingers. Please."

He gave me two, thick and slow, and curled them just right.

I came with a cry, quick and bright, my thighs shaking against his ears.

He didn't stop.

He licked me through it, gently, and brought me up again.

I came a second time, wetter and harder, saying his name.

"One more," he said into my skin.

"I can't."

"You can."

I did.

The third time left me limp and shaking and laughing weakly at the ceiling.

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