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I can feel slick sliding down the inside of my thighs. I’m so wet, it’s actually embarrassing.

He smells it, of course. His nostrils flare, and his eyes go almost black.

“Up,” he says, and lifts me on the table.

The same table. Again. In the same spot. My poor table’s never going to be the same.

He pushes me back, gently, until I’m lying across it with my legs hanging off the edge. Then he picks up the honeycomb and holds it over my stomach, and looks at me, waiting.

“Rowan,” I breathe. “If you put honey on my pussy, I’m going to be sticky for a week.”

“I’ll clean you up.”

“With what?”

He just looks at me. Slowly, he licks his lips.

Oh my God.

“Okay,” I say faintly. “Okay. Yeah. Do it.”

He squeezes the comb, and honey drips down low on my belly, then lower, into my curls, then lower still. It slides over my clit, slow and cool and thick, and I gasp out loud. It’s such a strange feeling. Heavy and sweet and sticky, coating me, running down between my lips to where I’m already soaking wet, and my hips buck off the table on their own.

Then he goes down on his knees and gets to work.

He licks me clean. Every single drop. Long, slow strokes of his tongue, starting at the bottom, dragging up through the honey and my slick all mixed together, and he groans so deep I feel it vibrate through my whole pussy. The grain of his tongue drags over my clit, catching on it, and with the cool honey and his hot mouth and everything slick and sticky, it feels completely different from last night. Slower. Deeper. Messier.

“Rowan,” I gasp. “Rowan, oh my God…”

He doesn’t answer. He’s busy. He’s licking honey off my inner thighs now, and then back to my pussy, and then he sucks my clit into his mouth, honey and all, and I scream.

Actually scream.

He slides two fingers into me, and they glide in so easy with all that slick and honey, and he curls them right up into that spot and keeps sucking my clit, and I come apart. Just completely come apart, right there on the kitchen table, my back arching and my thighs shaking and my hands grabbing at nothing, honey everywhere, his name coming out of my mouth over and over.

He licks me through every second of it. Then he keeps going, gentler, until every last drop of honey is gone.

When I can see again, he’s standing over me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Now,” he says, “that’s the best honey I’ve ever had.”

I laugh so hard I almost roll off the table.

* * *

I’m still sticky.

I’m sticky in places I didn’t know could get sticky, and there’s honey in my braids somehow, and I have no idea how it got in my braids. Rowan says it was a team effort. I don’t remember that part, but I believe him.

We wash up at the pump out back, which turns into another whole thing that takes way longer than washing should take. And then, since I have actual work to do, I put on my oldest dress and grab my veil and head out to the hives.

Rowan follows me. Of course he does.

“You need a veil,” I tell him.

“No, I don’t.”

“Rowan, they’re going to sting you.”