Page 65 of May: Bloom & Bane

I wriggle against the canvas, trying to find relief, trying to understand the sensation building inside me. It’s no longer just fullness; it’s a slow-building ache that has me seeking more.

“Sage,” I gasp. “They’re getting⁠—”

“Bigger,” he confirms, his hand sliding between my legs to feel the blooms pushing against my walls.

“More,” I beg, my fingers digging into his forearms.

“More seeds?” he rasps, his breath hot against my thigh. “Or bigger blooms?”

“Both,” I gasp.

He groans as he pushes two larger seeds into my heat. The sudden expansion takes my breath away.

“Too much?” He freezes.

“Perfect,” I sob, my hips twitching pathetically around the growing pressure.

His eyes are wild, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any color left. “Eden,” he rasps. “I need⁠—”

He slides down my body, his hands catching my thighs and spreading them wide, pinning them to the canvas. The movement shifts the seeds inside me, making me cry out as a fresh surge of liquid heat blooms against my walls.

I lift my head, looking down the length of my body—and I see him. All of him.

His length is a slightly darker green than the rest of his skin, fading into a softer peach at the tip. Subtle gold, vine-like ridges twist down his shaft, pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeats. At the base, a luminous collar of soft petals unfurls, massaging the bottom of his shaft and squeezing thick ropes of shimmering lavásia from the center.

My core pulses around the seeds, begging him to fill the rest. I reach down, tracing my fingers over the length of one of his spiraling vines.

He chokes back a growl.

“What is this called?” I ask breathlessly. I stroke him as another wave of pressure ripples through my pelvis. “In your language?”

He opens and closes his mouth three times, his hips rutting into my hand before he can get an answer out.

“My shaft?” His voice cracks. “Or the vines?”

“The vines.” I gasp, my walls clenching around the blooms.

“It’s my—” He slides a single finger back inside me, pushing the seeds around. “Velásira.”

“Velásira,” I repeat, sliding my fingers down while my body whimpers for relief. “What does it mean?”

“Vine of—” He shudders and throws his head back when my thumb circles his tip, smearing the stream of gold around the head. “Desire. It means vine of desire.”

“Mm,” I breathe, my thighs attempting to squeeze shut. “It suits you.”

My fingers drift lower, following the full length of the vine until I find the soft petals at his base. The moment I touch one with the slightest pressure, the sound that tears from him could not be less dignified. Half of his body flashes skeletal again. The velvety bloom caresses my finger back.

“And this?” I ask, circling the petal with my fingertip.

His hips jerk forward, and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Lím,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “My bloom collar.”

I stroke another petal, fascinated by the way they pulse and search for my touch, matching the rhythm of the blooms inside me.

“What does it do?” I whisper, my voice thick with need.

His eyes snap open, unfocused and dark.