8. Silva

Silva

She never would have imagined that packing a bag for him would have been one of the most stressful endeavors she'd ever needed to accomplish.

Silva understood the magnitude of the task in which she had been invested. She wasn't merely stuffing a handful of clothes in a rumpled duffel, after all. Tate spent most of his days dressed for work — either the crisp white collared shirt, starched within an inch of its life, and black pants ensemble the entire staff of Clover wore, or his customary black V-neck T-shirt and snug-fitting jeans in the pub, with virtually no diversion. He owned what seemed like an endless supply of the specific T-shirt he liked, whisper soft with flat, invisible seams, half a dozen white collared shirts, and his jeans ranged from smart to artfully tattered – consistent and reliable.

That alone might persuade one to not think much of his dress sense, but Silva knew better. She had discovered that any time they went somewhere outside of one of his two businesses, he was as well-dressed and fashionable as any other elf she'd ever known, with a particular, singular aesthetic. A marriage of curiously old-fashioned cuts and designs paired with more the casual and modern — he always looked deliberate, achieving the sort of effortless cool that Silva had determined only those men with an innate sense of style and a truckload of sex appeal could achieve.

She had no idea how to create his look on her own, but he had trusted her, and she was going to give it her best effort.

Tate had made no mention of how long he was planning on staying with her in Cambric Creek, and she had even less of a clue about what he was going to be willing to do with her. Even if she suspected his motives for this impromptu reversal of their sleepover situation was largely so that he could dump her off on the side of the road in a box like an abandoned kitten, Silva could not, would not overlook the fact that this was exactly what she'd been pining for.

The chance to show him the community, to show him how happy they could be. How well they would fit in with their neighbors of various species, living side-by-side in communal harmony. She could easily envision them settling into one of the little brick brownstones just a few blocks north of the business district, or else, over beyond the developments, in one of the trendy town houses that sloped down the road, with their tidy little yards and uniformity. It would be a mix of both their styles — her cozy, plush pastels and his old world antiques, a comfortable home office and drafting table for her, with a gourmet worthy kitchen for him.

She would find a better job and do freelance work, and Tate could spend less time in the two businesses he built that didn't actually need him, and more time with her. Who knows, maybe he could open a little cafe here. Silva knew her family assumed she was longing for the same sort of well-to-do life of privilege all of her friends at the club were chasing, but she didn't find her daydreams so out of the realm of immediate possibility. Her and Tate, comfortable and content in a little place of their own in the community she loved. It didn't seem unrealistic to her at all.

And now you have your chance. Once the door of her apartment closed behind him, he'd be her captive, and she was going to make the most of it.

First, she needed to dress him. Start with the basics.

Several pairs of jeans, a stack of his favorite T-shirts, the scuffed leather Chelsea boots he wore most often. A roll neck sweater, in case they went for an evening stroll, his leather jacket in case the wind was biting. The soft gray joggers, which she would insist he wear every night in her apartment. Several collared shirts — several button downs in grey and black and petal pink, a sleeker option with a spread collar in midnight blue, easily able to envision him looking polished and sharp beside her in one of Cambric Creek's higher end restaurants. A grey waistcoat with an interesting pocket design. She vacillated over his collection of suits, deciding a sport coat would be a more versatile option. Where on earth are you planning on taking him? Silva had no idea, but she wanted to be prepared, in any case. A stack of black boxer-briefs, socks for both daytime and evening dress, two leather belts, and she was finished.

She'd been waffling over the black oxfords and the maple brown brogues when she saw it. At the side of his long, cavern-like closet, she discovered an antique trunk. Maybe he has more sweaters in here. It was incredibly old, although the hinges and fittings were shiny and well oiled, likely replacements for the originals that had been installed at some point. She had no way of opening it, muttering to herself about untrusting boyfriends and their padlocks, but there was a note on the top of it, the envelope unsealed, slipped beneath one of the leather straps.

Return to Castlemartyr

She recognized Tate's flowing handwriting, with his spiky downstroke. Silva turned slowly, after replacing the envelope beneath the strap. Once she noticed the envelope-encased note, the others seemed to scream out to her, from boxes already sealed in packing tape and storage bins stacked atop each other. There were several more notes in the closet alone. Return to Castlemartyr. Send to Malin Head. Box at Provincial Bank, Cork City.

He had given her tacit approval to look through his things, to dig through his closet, to rifle through his drawers. How else was she supposed to pack him a bag? Silva bit her lip, feeling as she had as a small girl, when she'd accidentally-on-purpose stumbled upon her Fallrite presents, tucked away in one of the linen closets. She was unable to tell if some of the notes were labels or instructions meant to be carried out. Instructions for whom? Why? For when? Reminder to himself? There were no answers. She backed out of the cave-like closet, disliking the swoop inside her, as if she were suddenly in a freefall.

She knew that he kept his collection of watches in the lower compartment of an antique jewelry box in the top drawer of one of his bureaus, and she retrieved it then, carefully lifting it atop the dresser, finding another note there, this time on a small post-it. Watches - to Castlemartyr. Box - remains. Silva swallowed hard. Ignore it. This isn't for you, clearly.

She knew he liked the watch with the gold filigree cover of vines and tiny bees, and she had seen him wear one with a black face and exposed silver gear work on more than one evening out. His accessories, like the rest of his wardrobe, were minimal but deliberately chosen. Take these two. He'll feel unfinished if you don't.

At the top of the jewelry box was the curious, lovely pendant he sometimes wore. A tiny, wine-red bird on ivory porcelain, a chip of a long-ago broken teacup, set into a locket-like setting, for some indiscernible reason. Tate had not volunteered the information and she had not asked, feeling that same curious swoop in her belly whenever she considered it. Silva had no proof, but she had mentally decided the strange necklace was something he wore for comfort, and she did not want to leave it behind. It's his emotional support jewelry, and you're a good, thoughtful girlfriend. There was a small velvet pouch in the bottom compartment with nothing in it, and she very carefully dropped the pendant into its confines, slowly feeding in the chain so that it didn't twist or kink.

She decided on both the black and brown shoes, a pair of low-top trainers, and decided the boots he was wearing would round out the selection. She had just finished gathering up his toiletries when she heard the apartment door open once more. His smile was sharp when she left the bedroom, meeting him in the kitchen.

"Shake a leg, little dove. I have no idea how far Crackadam Creek even is."

"Silva, I have to ask a question and I know you're going to think I'm being cheeky, but it is coming from a place of absolute sincerity."

Silva raised her eyebrows over her steaming cup, unable to anticipate what he was even going to say to her. She'd ordered her favorite Lavender London Fog, and the fragrant steam curled around her nose.

It felt like forever and a day since she had indulged in the Black Sheep Beanery. Once, she considered, she had made a daily stop. And now you don't even miss it. Just think of all the money you've been saving making coffee and tea at home. The Earl Grey latte felt more indulgent now that she hadn't had it in a while. You won't need to come here every single day together. Maybe just on the weekends. That way, it still feels like a treat. Besides, Tate's Irish gold tea wasn't on the menu, and she didn't see him abruptly making the switch to coffee just for her.

"Go on," she encouraged him, sipping her drink.

Tate leaned forward, glancing around surreptitiously. Silva mirrored his pose, assuming he was about to ask her something salacious.

"Does anyone in this bleedin' town have a job? Or do you all receive some sort of dispensation from the Council? A caffeine allowance that you're not allowed to spend anywhere else?"

Silva almost choked. "You are ridiculous!" she laughed, balling up her napkin and flinging it across the small table at him.

"I'm deadly serious. Does anyone actually go to work? Or do you all just sit around on your duffs drinking coffee in this cafe? I understand they have to alternate who's allowed to sit down for the system to work, so is it a queue you have to rejoin? Are you given a number at the front and they alert you when you can come back? It doesn't seem sustainable for a town, but you lot seem to be doing all right."

The drive in had been relatively uneventful. Tate had repeated, once they were standing before his car, that he had no idea in which direction they were even going. She laughed, chiding him for being silly, wrinkling her nose when she realized he was completely serious.

"You know how to get to Bridgeton? You know, that city you used to live in? The city you worked in? The city that's literally on the other side of Cambric Creek, because it is smack dab in the middle of Bridgeton and Greenbridge Glen? Yeah, you do? Well, drive to Bridgeton."

Tate had laughed, sliding behind the wheel, clicking his tongue as she fastened her seatbelt. "I don't know if I entirely appreciate that tone."

It had been perfect, like a scene plucked directly from her daydreams. Cruising up the rural highway, his hand on her knee, heading back to the town they might hopefully call home together in the near future. That was, at least, until Tate had abruptly turned the wheel, directing his car down some country backroad near the border of Greenbridge Glen.

"What are you doing?!"

He turned to her with a look of genuine incredulity. "Silva, you told me to drive to Bridgeton. This is the way to Bridgeton."

"Oh my goodness, it is not! Stop before you go any further!"

He had been laughing as he pulled off the side of the road, bringing her eye-to-eye with a group of disinterested cows, standing near the fence of the farm they were driving past.

"Dove, do you want to drive? Because I already told you, I have no idea where I'm going."

It had taken her a few minutes to familiarize herself behind the wheel of his car, shrieking as she pulled onto the road, not realizing it was a manual transmission.

"Just put the bleedin' thing in auto shift before you leave my whole engine block with these ruddy cows," he'd half yelped at her, shifting the gear himself as the car jerked and lurched.

She'd still been giggling after she got them turned around, speeding back up the road towards home. She pointed out Talontail Winery's hundreds of acres of grape vineyard and the giant barn they had recently converted into a party center, remembering belatedly that she'd never RSVPed to a wedding being held there later that month. As they passed Talontail's original building, Tate's hand had curled around the center console, sucking a breath through his teeth. Silva rolled her eyes.

"Oh for pity's sake, your transmission is fine, you big grump."

He said nothing, and she had continued on with no further incident, waiting for him primly at the steps of her building as he pulled his bag from the boot of the car.

It wasn't until they were standing in line at the Black Sheep Beanery that Silva remembered their appearances. The hapless cashier, a young amphibious woman with smooth blue-green skin, looked from Silva to Tate with her mouth hanging open a bit, and Silva had been unable to fathom why.

"We went to a piercing party," Tate said above her head, in the most earnest voice she suspected he could muster, reminding her of their bloodied mouths and that they were likely still an absolute wreck. ". . . Obviously not a very good one."

Silva sucked in a breath as the young woman laughed awkwardly, seeming relieved to have a reason she could ascribe to the fact that both of her patrons had puffy, bloodied lips, even if the reason itself was a bit absurd.

"You look like a battered woman," he hissed into her hair as she collapsed against his chest, unable to control her giggles once they had placed their order and moved to the end of the busy counter. "I probably look like I've had my arse kicked sideways. It was a terrible idea to leave the house."

"I'll remind you that it was your idea to get coffee," she wheezed, laughing so hard that she was unable to stay upright. "It's going to get a lot worse in a few minutes. I really have to go to the bathroom and I'm probably going to start screaming."

She envied his ability to completely swallow his laughter until it was silent, his chest heaving. Silva pressed herself against his front, happier than she could ever remember being, despite the tangible anxiety still hanging over them, that swinging pendulum never slowing.

"I'm going to go now, okay? I'll grab us a table on the way back, that is, if no one calls the police."

"Make for the back alley if you hear sirens, dove."

Now they were still sitting at their little tucked away table at the edge of one of the Beanery's many nooks and crannies.

"I'm a bit offended you didn't grab my Norfolk jacket," he quipped, sipping from his honeycomb latte. "How are strangers meant to know I'm an immigrant if I don't look as if I should be tending sheep somewhere?"

He was currently wearing the jacket in question, a tweedy grey, flecked in hunter green, that strange juxtaposition of the old world and the new. He was wrong, Silva thought. He looked as handsome as he always did, the jacket neither odd nor out of place over his jeans and motorcycle boots, and he certainly didn't look as if he were a wayward shepherd.

"Do you have a lot of experience with that?" she asked as seriously as she could, but was unable to keep her smile from twitching at the corners of her mouth. "Tending sheep, that is?"

"Not as much as you'd suspect," he chuckled. "My mother has always been the type who take any bit of fluff and turn it into a gown. Knitting, weaving, she did it all. I used to help her card wool when I was young, and dye it. She used to make all my clothes. But she was always very particular. It had to be a certain breed of sheep for her wool. She would get to know the farmers, and then she would need shearings from a specific flock. And then she would get to know the flock, and it was only acceptable from specific sheep. Anyway, I would go with her and we'd make a whole day of it. Sheep are very friendly until you try to ride them. I've been kicked and head-butted more times than I can count."

Silva laughed, delighted. He had never spoken of his mother like this, beyond telling her that they didn't speak at all. Maybe you really are turning a corner. Maybe the past month actually was all in your head. Her heart thrummed, trying to picture a tiny Tate being bucked off an unwilling sheep's back, giggling at the thought.

"So, I get a call from her a few weeks ago. That's usually enough to knock me arseways for the rest of the day on its own. 'Tate, I need you to send me some wool. I'm trying to buy some and these bastards won't listen.'"

He affected what was apparently meant to be his mother's voice, high and heavily accented. Silva felt her mouth drop open, flummoxed over the fact that he had spoken to his mother as recently as a few weeks ago and hadn't told her about it. Maybe you can go and visit!

"So she goes on to describe this very specific herd of sheep who graze on this very specific hill. As if I'm supposed to know the sheep personally. Why can't I just climb up the mound and have a conversation with Connel and Junith, they're very nice sheep, don't I know."

He was laughing as he related the story to her, and Silva laughed along with him, a giddy bubble of warmth filling her chest, already planning on what she would wear, where they would go, how she would make sure to impress his mother.

"So I tell her, 'Mammy, Connel and Junith are on holiday. I don't know how to get in touch with their owner.' The whole area is a strip mall now, dove, there's no fucking sheep to be found. There's a chippy and a laundrette. No sheep. But she argued with me for the next twenty fucking minutes until I agreed that yes, I would go and have a word with Connel and Junith. Yes, I'll make sure to send her some wool. So . . . that's the extent of my sheep herding."

Silva was wheezing. She was still stuck on the image of him as a little boy in her head, trying to envision his messy dark hair and long ears, riding a fluffy sheep down the hillside. "I thought you told me . . . I didn't know you talk to your mother that often. Do we need to go to Ireland and buy some wool? I have a passport. Just need to go home and pack my bag. We can introduce her to a whole new flock."

If this were one of her books, that was exactly what they would do. Change the setting, put the star-crossed main characters in a new situation, and let the romanticism of some faraway place do the job of setting the mood for love. No matter how rakish the rake, he always confessed his undying love to the heroine, and she would accept his hand regardless of his prior misdeeds, eager to begin anew. She could easily imagine them on some bucolic, emerald green hillside, kissing beneath an endless sky . . . happily ever after, surrounded by fluffy white sheep.

His smile was wry, gazing down at his cup.

"Wool I've already taken care of. I have a supplier who sends it automatically. Same breed of sheep she's always used. She's gone through it a bit faster this month, but I've already made the call to increase the order . . . And that was the first time I've spoken to her in three years when she's known me from the beginning to the end of the conversation. It's usually fine at the start. She calls when she needs something, or to complain about something that happened fifty years ago . . . but it doesn't last long."

The bubble in her chest burst, and she quickly reached out to take his hand across the table, mentally berating herself. Why did you say anything?! What couldn't you leave well enough alone? "I-I'm sorry," she murmured. "I shouldn't have said any —"

"It's fine, Silva. It's not a new situation. But you can understand why I don't want you burning a bridge with your own family. C'mon, dove. I need to buy a jar of peanut butter, lest I'm forced to do heinous things to yours. Take me for a walk through this bleedin' place before you start cryin', so I can ascertain whether or not anyone is actually gainfully employed in this town."

Every day and evening was a revelation.

He had grudgingly proclaimed the bistro to which she took him that first night for dinner "impressively adequate." They walked along the waterfront, hand-in-hand, and it had been so exactly like her daydreams, Silva had pinched herself more than once just to ensure that she had not fallen and bumped her head again.

"It's so quiet here." He'd been looking out at the falls, his eyes fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance, as if he were straining to hear something particular and couldn't. Just to the left, the waterfall cascaded over the ledge, pounding down into the rocks in a nonstop deluge, and just beyond, she was able to hear the braying laughter of patrons leaving one of the restaurants.

"I don't know about quiet," Silva laughed. "But isn't it beautiful?" She'd sighed, looking out over the lit-up falls from their path, thrilled that he was here to see it with her at last.

"Aye. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She turned happily, ready to throw herself into his arms, but the stricken look on his face froze her. He wasn't looking at the falls at all, his body turned away, facing her instead. Under normal circumstances, she would have been thrilled for the compliment, but at the anguished look in his eyes, her stomach flipped, sending her into that freefall once more.

Her own alarm didn't go off nearly as early as his, but the damage of those few months waking at his side, it seemed, was done. Her internal clock was set to restaurant time now. Her eyes would flutter open shortly before dawn, finding him already wide awake, watching her sleep.

"Good morning," she would whisper from her side of the pillow they always wound up sharing. When one of his long fingers reached out to trace the edge of her cheekbone, dragging down her jaw to her chin, her eyes closed again.

"You're like some perfect moon goddess carved in stone," he murmured, the pad of his thumb tracing the shape of her lips. "I could look at you for a thousand years and never get tired of the view, Silva."

The routine they had in his own kitchen would be mirrored, played out in hers.

She kept a tin of his rich gold teabags on her kitchen counter, flicking on the electric teakettle she'd purchased as he peered out the window, looking out on the parking lot. She worked from home the whole week from her own little desk, as he sat cross-legged on her sofa, eating peanut butter directly from the jar and paging through one of her books. The one he'd pulled off the shelf was a particular favorite — a noblewoman in disguise, working as a housekeeper in the home of a handsome Duke whose family was forcing him to marry.

"The cats!" she exclaimed in the middle of the afternoon, the day after his arrival. "Who's going to feed your cats?!"

Silva thought his smile was strangely sad as she turned from across the room.

"Those wee beasts don't belong to anyone. They need to not forget how to look after themselves. There won't always be someone to mind them . . . But I asked Thessa to put out food a few times a week. They'll learn to like kibble from the market or remember how to make due on their own."

That same afternoon, she sat before her screen on a team meeting, her microphone muted, attempting to look as interested and invested as she could. Tate had moved to her tiny kitchen with his own laptop, and she had been listening to him tapping away most of the morning. Now though, she heard his voice. Her ability to focus on her call diminished. She had no idea who he was talking to and what he was doing, but it was invariably more interesting that whatever this pompous bad executive was droning on about. Silva leaned back in her chair, attempting to hear him better.

He wasn't speaking the common. A Gaelic dialect of Elvish, too fast for her to attempt to pick out even a single word. She was forced to re-divert her attention back to her screen when the visuals for shared, the voice of her own supervisor catching her attention. But the time she was able to refocus on the call happening in her kitchen, it had changed. Still Gaeilge, although she was unable to tell if it was Trollish or something else.

Silva nearly fell backward out of her chair once her own meeting ended, scampering off to the kitchen as quickly as she could, trying and failing to look nonchalant. His call had ended. He sat before his open laptop scrolling through his phone, looking up with a sharp-edged smile at her entrance.

"Have you still managed to find a way to work?" she teased, squeaking when he searched upward from his chair, lifting her by the waist as he did so.

"Just some banking. It's a chore being mindful of the time difference."

He didn't offer anything else, and Silva hummed, stretching up to reach his lips. I suppose it makes sense that he still does banking overseas. Probably for his mother.

"I just have one more thing to finish up, and then I'm done. I was thinking we could go downtown today."

"Obviously we have to, Silva. If you don't visit the coffee shop, it will be a mark on your tally. You don't want to get run out of town, do you now?"

She gave him the sternest look she could muster, marred by her wide smile. "Anyway, I was thinking we could go downtown. There's this cool tea shop and a bookstore . . . I already drove you through Oldetowne, right? Ooo, I know! I can bring you to the history museum. It's a tiny little thing, but you'll love it. It's in an old carriage house, and they still have all the original everything inside."

She gasped as he lifted her higher, forcing her legs around his waist. Silva wrapped her arms around his long neck, knowing all too well that her smile was that of a cosseted house cat being spoiled with an extra dish of cream. This is everything you've wanted. The only thing that would be better is if we could fit in going to the kitten cafe.

"Whatever you want to do, dove. But before we leave to go anywhere, I think it would be wise to check on your injuries. Can't have you going septic on me."

She couldn't argue with his logic and had no complaints when he carried her to the bedroom, laying her down atop the coverlet. Once he was on the bed, though, Silva got the distinct impression, as he peeled off her knit shorts and panties, spreading her legs open for his careful inspection, that his interest was not entirely rooted in merely checking on her physical well-being.

That first night in her bed, he'd been firm in her keeping her hands to herself.

"The only thing you're going to be doing naked is getting into the tub. We need to keep wounds clean. What do they even teach you in these Elvish schools?"

She'd not put up a fight, swallowing the pills he gave her for the inflammation and whining when he dabbed the bite with antibiotic ointment once more.

"It's made for humans, dove. You have to take twice as much."

She'd woken the previous night to the press of his erection, thick against her backside, and while she had been tempted to stroke him to completion, she wasn't eager to wake him, nor to be the recipient of this exact lecture about keeping her wound clean.

Her eyes fluttered closed when she felt his face lowering, biting her lip when he blew on her inflamed clit, cool and steady.

"Well, I suppose the good news is it doesn't look any worse."

She sucked in a breath when his fingers moved in, one on either side of the abused bud of nerves, neither touching it directly.

"You know, I think I've read that this bit here is only the tip of the organ. Like an iceberg, dove. The bit we lick is only the tip. There's a whole deadly threat just beneath the waves."

Her breathing was shallow as he moved his fingers in a gentle, steady rhythm, palpating around her clit without touching the abused hood. Silva bit her lip, wincing when she did so in the same spot he had punctured, a whine pulling from her throat as he continued to blow against the little bud of nerves, rubbing into the bulb beneath.

"Learned that in a book, you said? No practical, hand-on experience, Mister Smarty?"

He chuckled, dark and hot against her, remembering himself and blowing cooler air a moment later. "Book learnin' and being miserable, dove. That's practically Irish heritage."

With his other hand, Tate slid two fingers into her, caressing her from the inside until she was canting upwards against his hand. It was simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. She knew that it would hurt to come again, the pulse of blood making her bite burn . . . but that burn was all she wanted. She needed him inside her, wanted to feel that white-tinged heat of pleasure and agony.

"This is how I want to spend the rest of my days, Silva. With your cunt on my mouth, hearing those little kitten moans. That's all I need to die happy. That's the sweetest thing there is in this world, on either side of the veil."

Yes. That's all she wanted as well. The stroke of his tongue before stretching her with his cock. She had a hand in his hair, using his topknot to direct his head, for him to do exactly that, but he resisted the movement.

"Not now, you daft thing. It's as if you want an infection."

At that, Silva gave an outraged laugh, pulling on his long ears. "Make up your mind! Fine, then I want you inside me." She didn't need to see his face to imagine his disgruntled look, hearing its accompanying grunt.

"Silva —"

"I can get on my knees! You won't even have to touch it."

In a blink, she was pushing to sit up on the bed clambering to her knees. Tate gave her a narrowed eyed glare at her laugh of triumph as she undid his jeans, finding him already hard.

She would never get tired of this, either. Long and thick, bigger than any else she had ever been with, green darkening to the tip where he was edged in pink, the silky smooth skin of his glans like a flower, hiding its pink petals in the center. Silva pulled up his shaft, rubbing the pad of her index finger into his slit, opening it up, showing her all that pink. She was rewarded when his breathing was instantly laboured, a great shuddering breath when his hand gripped her wrist, stilling her ministrations. With a single finger, she continued to rub against his slit, smiling up angelically when her finger came back slick. Tate gave her his very best glower as she giggled up.

"You've got some nerve on you, considering you're the one who started all this mess."

Breaking free of his grip, Silva brought her finger to her mouth, sucking it clean, giving him her best innocent kitten expression, blinking slowly from beneath her lashes. "It tastes like you're the one who wants to make a mess."

Stifling her giggle, she turned slowly, getting on her hands and knees, lining herself up near the edge of the bed. Rocking her hips from side-to-side, she looked back over her shoulder coquettishly, giggling again at what she saw. Tate already had himself in hand, shaking his head in mock disgust at her antics.

"Minx. You also don't learn your lessons, little dove."

Closing her eyes, Silva held her breath in anticipation as he pulled her closer to him, her hips high. First press of his cockhead to the lips of her sex made her whimper. It was going to hurt when she came, but it was going to hurt so good.

"Careful what you wish for."

Her back arched like a bow when he pressed into her from behind, opening her up slowly and steadily, spreading her walls until he was seated within her, balls flush the curve of her ass. His mouth dropped to her shoulder, hot breath, the drag of his teeth, and the molten press of his mouth to the side of her neck. Her hand came up to catch at his hair, scraping her nails against him as he kissed her temple.

"The bleedin' end of me, Silva."

When he drew back nearly to the tip, sinking into her in one fluid thrust, she decided he was right. This was all she needed, as well. They never needed to leave her apartment again. She loved having him here with her, loved him being in her space. In her most insecure moments, Silva thought it was curious that for all his travels and the endless parade of folks of every species in his life, he'd picked an elf like her, a little mouse, but she wasn't about to argue with his choices. They could order in food, clothes, medicine. She could keep him in her bed endlessly, holding him inside her until close finally felt close enough, and they never needed to face the outside world again.

The best thing about this particular position, she was quickly reminded, was the delicious downward angle of his cock moving within her. Those transient fae ridges slid against her g-spot over and over as his hips bounced off her ass, making her lose the power of speech entirely. Tate had curled over her back with one knee on the bed, pushing her head and shoulders flat against her mattress, held in place with a hand at the back of her neck.

"Do you remember that very first night you wandered into the Pixie, Silva?" His voice was a dark curl above her, and every thrust within her was hard and deep. "I told you the fae in me wanted to put you on your knees and take what I wanted from you until I was satisfied. Do you remember?"

The room was spinning wildly out of control. Each day that passed, his shaft felt a bit thicker within her, those ridges a bit more pronounced, dragging against her inner walls in a way that made her spine vibrate. They were battering her now, catching at that spongy pot within her in a way that made her eyes roll back on each downstroke, the coil of tension behind her navel ready to snap. The noises coming from her mouth were high-pitched and uncontrolled, desperate and breathy, as if she were on an out-of-control carnival ride and was desperately trying not to fly off. Withstanding the pressure was not something she could do and remain in control. She nodded against the mattress.

"Y-yes."

Silva squealed in surprise when Tate gripped her by the elbows, hauling her up to her own knees without warning. The new position made everything feel tighter, more compressed, as if his cock were moving against her lungs.

"Then come for me, little dove." His voice was a curl around her ear, the graze of his teeth punctuating the sensation. "I want the feeling of your cunt around me to be the only thing that's left worth remembering."

He kept a tight grip on her elbows, pulling them back to him, but the ricochet of his hips pumping into her never slowed, pushing her forward in a constant tug-of-war she had no hope of winning. When she ascended it, her peak was a blur of pleasure and pain, and it hurt just as much as she suspected it would. A white-hot burn, her abused clit throbbing, muscles tightening as she clenched around the fat shape of him within her, crying out. His arm came around her, holding her up as she shook against her, an arm around her middle and a hand at her neck, bracing her gently, without pressure.

It was an afternoon fuck, a meaningless mid-day fling, and she knew she was ascribing too much meaning there, but tears burned at her eyes just same. He supported her unthinkingly, without hesitation, and she wasn't sure if he'd ever feel this secure again. It was a long life ahead of her to have peaked so early. Silva thought she might be embarrassed at how easily her control broke, if she'd been able to shake the pervasive sense that her happiness existed on borrowed time. She still felt the swing of that phantom pendulum over their heads when she settled against him at night, keeping time with the beat of his heart.

His hands moved over her slowly, reverently, as if she were a sacred, ancient bride, one of those fearsome elves of old, deadly and beautiful. His palm cupped her breast, thumb circling her nipple lightly, while with the other hand, his fingertips traced over her clavicle, ghosting down her body in a straight line — feather light through the valley between her breasts, over her stomach, making her muscled jump beneath his touch, flattening out over her lower belly, his long fingers stretching over her skin, holding her steady as he pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

She'd gotten her wish, Silva thought as her head lolled on his shoulder. She was ruined for anyone else, for no one else could ever make her feel out of control. No one would ever again touch her this gently, revering every inch of her skin. There would never be anyone else who incited such irrational jealousy within her, she was certain. No one who saw her so completely, saw all of her flaws, saw her without forcing her splinter herself to make him happy. She didn't feel like she had to be Silva of the Nighttime with him anymore — she was just Silva. With him she was whole.

And he was right. No one would ever make her scream like this again.

When he pulled out of her, Silva crumpled to the bed, the room still spinning for a moment until she got her bearings. She wasn't done. He'd not finished, and even though she wanted him inside her every minute of every day, hot and pulsing and hers, she had been good at this once, and with him she was good at it still.

Dropping to her knees before him, she gripped his shaft before he could stop her. A slow lick up the seam of his glans, her mouth covering his pink edged head until she was able to swallow him down. Both hands his shaft, dripping down to the root, a twist on her upstroke, her tongue never slowing as she sucked. She felt the pull on her scalp when his hand tightened in her hair, the way the whole world dimmed when he began to move against her mouth, her airway blocked he pulled off, softness of his skin as she sunk her nails into his thighs.

When the first burst of him hit the back of her throat, she tightened her grip as she swallowed. Ruined. Ruined for anyone else. Her mouth overflowed, the thin T-shirt she'd pulled on that morning absorbing the excess. Ruined.

And that was fine. She didn't want anyone else.

When she directed him to park in the little municipal lot on Main Street a short while later, she considered how unthinkable this scenario might have been just a few months ago.

"Soooo, the museum is closed," she laughed, checking her phone. "If only someone hadn't gotten so carried away checking on my injuries. Oh well, I guess we'll just have to do that tomorrow."

"Quite right. It had nothing at all to do with the mid-morning nap someone claimed she absolutely needed. Nothing at all. I suppose that means we'll be headed to the only place in town you people seem to go?"

She grinned back, reaching out to pull him by the hand. It was a perfect autumn afternoon, and for the moment, she had everything she wanted. "Nope. We're going to have a nice afternoon tea, and then tonight you get to see what happy hour is like on the town. And don't be cranky with me, you tired me out."

The door to the jewelry shop swung open, several women in her mother's age coming out, but Silva didn't take the time to see if any of them were elves. He had caught up with her and pulled her in for a kiss before they turned the corner. And none of them matter anyway.