Addictive Nightshade

by Poppet

  “Feel it, Emma. Just close your eyes and feel it.”

  Able to stand on the smooth pale bottom I obey, wallowing in the odd sensation of instant peace. My heart is engorging, my soul exploding, my spirit inflating, I feel twenty mountains tall and as free as a soaring meteor.

  “Welcome home,” whispers huskily in my ear, and before I can open my eyes to the sensual voice my lips are sealed with warm nubile skin; delicate, careful, soft.

  Caught by the arm still hard from exertion, divine fingers press into the small of my back, zipping our torsos together in a feint of fate. It robs my breath, my lucidity, my tenuous control.

  Snapping my eyes open as craving melts arousal through me, his kiss hits its target when my desire begins to roar carnal ache into delicate flesh.

  My thoughts are as scattered as the endless flares of lazy light tickling the room. I cling, touching, inhaling, kissing him back.

  Instinctively I plant my right hand on his chest, it's a natural born act of subconscious defense in an unexpected snare, yet now it pounds a tattoo into my anchoring hold, coursing his heartbeat into the oversensitive palm still tender from the handshake which sealed our destinies in a fusion so arcane I experience it on a visceral level, my spirit constantly reaching out, pouring through my hand as if he cut a tunnel through the rock protecting its sanctity. Direct access to a part of my person which is uniquely private, the invasion is both erotic and exhilarating.

  The tongue exploring mine and the tender tease of his teeth when he breaks the contact bursts my aorta into juicing love potion down every vein in my body. Gasping, my chest instantly a chasm, I dare to reopen my eyes, aware that I'm holding on to a standing pillar of supreme strength.

  You're magnificent.

  He's staring at me with his eyes bright, the left now a myriad of kaleidoscope colors endlessly spooling into the next vivid mandala, visible through the dark lens regardless. “Emma, your eyes, they're … oh baby...” Hands fold my face into their frame, pulling me onto tiptoes to be blessed with another scintillating promise of devotion. “You are a Thur,” he whispers across my numbing lips, “and your eyes shine in the pool of Asgard with the power of your forefathers.”

  “A thur?” I gasp, my legs trembling, my knees rubber, my attraction pounding a brutal gong from my g-spot to my nipples.

  “Thor and thur are interchangeable, but that doesn't matter, what matters is you have blossomed into the most beautiful harii. My harii.”

  My smart mouth wants to snap 'sap' at him but my conscience won't let me ruin his sincerity and adoration.

  I'm feeling altogether too lightheaded in here.

  He pivots, still holding me close, lining me against his body, both of us drenched, and I know my nipples are poking into his stomach, “Look Em, look at the rainbow crystals. Never forget the gods promise of home. The rainbow lies down, letting us step onto it, and then it raises up like an elevator. To call it down we have to shoot an arrow at the moon. We are shadows so we call home at night. We all wear a chain of arrow heads to remind us how to get home if we should ever need an emergency escape.”

  Lifting my hand he kisses the middle of my valhalla triangle. God! Instantly robbed of skeletal support I am a female amoeba smeared against his balmy body by his strength alone.

  I can't feel anything but the volcanic purge of debilitating release, euphoria gushing in instant catharsis at the spirit-deep penetration he has hooked in my soul. Wet heat leaks sticky evidence into my yoga pants.

  The atmosphere presses into my awareness in oscillating waves. My nerve endings are frayed, vision impaired, the only coherent conditioning in the spiritual tempest seizing my body in forceful exploration is mild shame that I had an orgasm from his valhalla mark clamping tight over mine.

  Squeezing my eyes shut I attempt to stabilize my breathing, hoping he doesn't know. Of course he fucking knows, I'm weak, trembling, simpering in submission to the primal claim. My exhalations are an endless litany of arousal.

  “This shape,” he purrs enticingly into my ear, still holding my hand and running his thumb over my palm, “It is the shape of an arrow head. The triangle on your palm, and mine, is an ancient symbol meaning many things to different ages, but it is a promise from our god to us, from Valhalla and Asgard, from me to you, from chief to warrior. This links us, it is a portal to call down the ladder to fly us to safety.”

  Unstable, spiraling, I can't withstand a second longer with him tracing the sigil on my hand. Desire is oozing uncontrollably and I'm unable to focus my pupils. We're simply holding hands, how is this possible?

  “Emma...” croons the master in a hot breath, skating stimulation down my throat to my painfully erect nipples.

  “Mmmm?” I shudder-moan.

  “It joins my soul to yours. No matter where you are you need just touch it and I'll find you. You will never be alone to walk this earth in solitude. I will never let you cry yourself to sleep ever again. I will feel you, you will feel me.”

  “You feel really fucking good.” My mind is twirling and whirling, I can't pry apart my lethargic eyelids, I am drunk from angelic water, or from him, the supernatural shackle he has on me, catching my hopes and dreams in his harii subjugation and using them to channel my arguments into a rampaging need for deeper... naked... carnal... intimate... plunging... ruthless... contact.

  “This close it's hard to resist the bond between our palms. We're two poles pulling to connect, like magnets we can only fight the increasing pressure for so long,” he says, three shades deeper, as if making a promise, a threat, a prediction.

  Pressure. Oh god yes!

  In answer to my frivolous wish he presses our left palms together so they seal as one and I fold into myself, obliterated, rocked by the spasm of my entire body vaporizing in explosive orgasm.

  I'm caught, cradled gently, lowered to sit on the edge of the font, commandeered to smother his chest, given the eternal embrace of soulmate protection.

  Holy madness, how do I open my eyes and face him after that! I'm enslaved, still suffering aftershocks of exquisite seizures.

  Supported by his arms I curl into him when his radiating body covers me, my head in his hands protecting me from the rock beneath us when I'm laid back, and die another magnificent death when he trails warm wet kisses from my chin to my neckline.

  A devout worshipper in the celestial gallery he tantalizes my nipple with his right hand, inflicting prayers and purgatory with every polish of his thumb over the rosary bead belonging to my breast.

  It prompts insanity, blasting bolts of revelation in a direct channel to my swollen pressure point. My nerve endings have become strings for the poet to play, delivering absolution and damnation over and over until I keen, kneading my tumid need against his, pleading in the depraved writhe of a soul in desperate thrall for mercy, annihilation, disclosure.

  My mind morphs to catatonic as I'm overwhelmed by instinctive surrender to passion. I'm no longer sober. My nipples are worry beads now targeted by teeth through my translucent white tank-tee, rendering me an incapacitated serf incarcerated by fevered lust.

  His naked skin is a delight I'm indulging in with random caresses. Smitten hands trail over muscles, tracking the mountains of his shoulders to ski in slippery exaltation down his back, applying plea-sure, begging through contact... for more. Much more.

  Quaking from the erotic exorcism induced by his touch, entirely seduced, I lick – kiss - trace adoration over the salty strength I can reach, yearning with every heartbeat imploding my nervous system. Urges overpower me, voracious, consuming; my libido barbaric, animalistic.

  Insistent, I pin nails into his back, the effort to force him deeper, closer, inside – depleting my reserves. My need now adamant and sadistic.

  Lifting his head, plotting my cardiac frenzy with a sure thumb inflicting domination through a masterful hold in the hollow of my throat, he ceases my ability to draw breath, forcing me to open my dilated eyes, lucidity such a far away dream I'm resisting the
demand to meet his impervious stare, his harii eye boring into my skull with the stark brilliance flaring out of it when I do.

  Succumbing, pulled from the sphere of primeval parrying I meet his plundering gaze, my body lame and soporific, imbedded deeper into submission with the asphyxiation now sludging my blood to pound up through my temples.

  Releasing the hold on my life with a mere lift of his thumb off the hollow in my throat, he smiles. It's slow, smug, promising sweaty nights deep in the mystery of the shadows which he pulls down to cloud around us, hot, misty, pressing and tasting me in his stead. “If I don't get us out of this baptism you'll end up doubting what was me and what was the euphoria of transcendental delight.”

  “It's you,” I insist. It's an oath, sworn allegiance, desperation.

  “We'll see,” he murmurs across my lips, slipping his inquisitive tongue back in to bed mine, sucking and exploring, big hands endlessly massaging my cheekbones as if watching the genie of paralysis smoke out of my eyes to kneel on his eyelashes, begging for another blessing.

  Lifting me up, standing, slopping us in wet steps out of the pool, he eases his hold so I slide heavily over the scintillating canvas of his body, plummeting in the distance of the severed kiss.

  Pining deep inside where heat swells and ebbs in endless undulations, I'm forced to stand, and he steps away, keeping a hold on my arms just in case, “You've heard of handfasting?”

  I nod. Yeah, I've heard of it vaguely... once.

  Who cares! This isn't the time for conversation it's the moment for action.

  “It's the rite, Emma. You accepted me when you clasped my hand yesterday, fasting our hands until they were one in power, with boundless access. I am not the one imposing myself into you, it's mutual–”

  “Shut up and kiss me.”

  “No Emma, not like this. Not now, not here.” Stepping closer so I am deep inside the heat of his aura, spiritually adhering to the charisma pervading my senses, he cups my face again, stooping to murmur his spell into my marrow, “First we eat, we drink, we dance, if after your formal welcome into the clan you still desire me for more, then I will not hesitate.”

  “Now,” I whine, my heart splintering at his cruelty.

  “We are written in the book of Raven's shadows, it's already happening, our spirits knot together in ecstasy, are you truly strong enough to withstand it happening simultaneously to your mind and body? This is just a soul caress elskling, it's nothing compared to the full package.”

  The package, the hard rigid provocation imprinting my body we stand so close. He doesn't want to stop. He's needing me to make that call, to take the fall, the blame, the credit.

  Defiant I slip my hand between us, stroking in obstinate rebellion to tempt through wet cloth, ducking my head to trace the triangle on my palm with the soft tip of my tongue, pressing it the way I'd press in to taste the arousal of the heat filling my other hand in enflamed anticipation, slipping the moistness around the entire black triangle on my palm to end in a deep penetrating suck in the center of the holy symbol.

  This joins us, it's a way in.

  His weakness is immediate, dropping to his knees, making us the same height when he grinds tense fingers through my arm muscles to etch the bones, branding me ecstatic when he shudders and groans as shamefully as I did in his arms.

  Now we're even.

  Chapter 14

  Emma:

  He's shaking as badly as I did, his eyelids heavy with desire's release, sweat glittering his upper lip.

  Kneeling in front of him I rest my cheek on his chest, relishing the labored pump of an elevated pulse. Twisting my head I bite softly into his chest muscle, sucking on it, sliding the lip adhesion to his nipple, flicking it under and over my tongue, intoxicated with my own passion I want him now.

  “It's good medicine, Macala,” I promise, nodding, looking up at his bowed head into the face poised above mine.

  “Stop Emma, before I strip and claim you right here.”

  Shaking my head I hook my finger into the waistband of his baggies, seductively loosening elastic's grip to coax it down.

  Bone crushing hands clamp my wrists, strained arms forcing me away, “No. I will take you in my own time with your dignity intact, not a stone floor in the herald's chamber.”

  Pain bludgeons my arms, the vice so constricting it garrotes my desire with tearful agony. His tone is resolute and I know I can't force it.

  “Hurting,” I whimper, tears escaping.

  He misreads it, thinking I just confessed my emotional carnage to him, and the answer is instant arm capture cradling me tight, kisses on my temple, my heart caving in a surge of unadulterated love. Soothing with safety, tenderness exchanges place with brutality. The contrast wracks my cohesion, crushing me in waves of alternating experience, pain, desire, pain, adoration, stimulation, throb throb throb.

  Infatuation? No, it's not. It's reverence, acknowledgement, epiphany.

  God! I'm in love overnight, my need borderline obsessive.

  So condemned by my reverie I am lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts when I become aware of rapid vision blurring the tunnels in his haste.

  “Mac?”

  “Shhh,” he pacifies, birthing us out of the impenetrable shade into the familiar chamber of his bedroom, carrying me directly to the shower, stepping with me into the waiting sepulcher and blasting us both with invigorating water.

  My shirt is torn off my body, dependent lips suckle possessively on my breast, his hand already claiming the twin in addicted fondling, kneading their dominion into my skin.

  Yoga trousers stretch and deform, puddling at my feet, my knees unhinged with applied pressure, crumpling me ungraciously onto his lap on the shell mosaic floor of the shower. With knees either side of his legs the sensation of his naked thighs and their coarse hair is immediately potent, my own thighs splayed, opening me wide to the heat of the palm cupping my sex, singeing the sigil of valhalla into my holy haven, consecrating my soul when I orgasm on demand directly into the hot skin invading my sacred space.

  Appreciative moans mingle with my own, mindlessness invading logic and winning.

  That triangle is a mystery with forces within it I need to understand.

  Induced enthusiasm rocks my world when he kisses me, my head hard against the wet stone wall, assaulted by his tongue, with his fingers, my nipple crushed in the zealous steel of his free hand. His kiss becomes demanding and with all my heart I want to submit, to be broken, the wild in me tamed through satiation.

  Shuddering oaths of ecstasy into his mouth I wrangle my arms inside his, pulling back the waistband and finding the one thing I need inside me more than I need a heart.

  Stroking the balmy satin so fluid over rigid muscle, the harsh eruption of his voice magnified by the confines of the shower quells my hesitation. Lifting up on my knees, shoving his hand away from my slippery ache, I slide over him in rapacious force. The impulsive action suddenly shocking, halting my movements and his, my frailty immediate, my vulnerability all too prominent while we freeze, staring hesitance into each other's eyes.

  Adulation wisps away with broken gasps, our breathing ragged and exaggerated, spilling the sounds of wildfire passion into the veil of water.

  Reason slides her toxic claws into his expression, stealing my male fanatic with her innocuous adhesion to ceremony.

  “You weren't... it wasn't... No.” He shakes his head, bodily forcing me up and off him, sneaking backward away from me, out of the spray, looking at me with the disapproval of awe scorned and spat on. Shaky fingers run unsteadily through his hair while indecision wrestles his features. Kneeling a foot away, resting on his flexed feet, I want to crawl after him but am condemned by the divorce imposed by his hands when he ejected me off him.

  It's consensual, I know it is, why does he keep shattering wanton bliss?

  He's breathing hard, his body so tense every muscle is raised for inspection, and I can't help it, I'm devouring the vision with shameless eyes
, my gaze fixating on the divinity nakedly on display before me. He's got the body of an athlete crossed with a chiseled bodybuilder. Every muscle cuts into bone, his skin pale and taut, his veins embroidering cords over bulky shoulders, from armpit to groin, his hip-shoulder ratio so decadently delicious I want to kneel down and run my tongue over those veins.

  Holding up his hands to ward me off, he shakes his head again, “No Em. Come on elskling, we can do better than jump each other like hellions.”

  With his palms facing me I can't avoid the pulsing red glow flaring off his valhalla triangle. Mine doesn't do that.

  Spying my surveillance he clamps the hand into a tight fist, “You! How do you manage to distract me with such ease? You've taken decades of guarded secrets and had me expose them to you in an instant. In twenty-four hours you've ruined me!”

  “Me?” I squeak through a dry throat. My body is in furor, unable to settle on a driving impulse. Capricious emotions pendulum across my heart, scabbing my soul at the possibility that pushing for breaking point I may have destroyed a boundary they harbor.

  Fear or fuck. Pick one.

  Blinking rapidly I struggle to stand on unstable legs, stalking him when he scoots back against the basin cupboard. Arrogantly shoving my stubborn streak in his face I kneel and sit back between his legs, avoiding the obvious and holding onto the bunched muscles carving up his torso. “Listen to me Mac, I'm not usually like this. Rabid isn't my style, but we're... fated... you said we were, so why... why wait? Let's do the raven dance.”

  My spirit is lynching me with pensive doubt and I deteriorate into pleading, knowing my eyes are an open book to his psychic ability. Worry is turning my blood rancid.

  The expression in his eyes surprises me, his fierce scowl dissolving into cherishing adoration while those big safe hands clamp my face again.

  He says gruffly, “Because we only get one first time. One. I didn't wait this long to dig a bed of regret, I waited to show you what it means when a man has no resistance because of you. When his motivation is more than lust he is patient, considerate, he... I...” The hoarse baritone cracks. “Emma please, let me show you the realms of possibility by trusting my instinct on this.”