“So what do they call you?” asked Phera, sopping up gravy. Aryn hesitated. Her name was ambiguous enough, but did she want to give it out so freely? “Never mind, I’ll give you a name myself.” Phera tilted her head and looked at her for a moment. “Babe,” she said decisively. Aryn reddened and flinched as Phera ran a finger across her jaw. “Not even peach fuzz yet.” She shook her head. “And very good at suckling.”
Aryn nearly choked on her biscuit. The others at the table laughed and Aryn didn’t dare look up. She tensed as Phera put a warm hand on her thigh beneath the table. The heat from the dancer’s hand was deliberate, and it was drawing an answering heat from deep inside her.
“Tell you what I’m going to do for you, Babe.” She pushed her plate away and edged her hand up farther. “Since you’ve been such a good sport, I’m going to give you a private dance.”
Aryn nearly jumped away from her, grabbing her hand as it got too close. “That’s not necessary,” she said. Not necessary? Idiot. It was very necessary. Nothing had ever seemed so necessary in her life. How likely was this offer ever to come again?
“Ah, I’ve embarrassed you.” Phera stood up, pulling Aryn to her feet. “Come on, we’ll talk in private.” Aryn went with her dumbly, her body arguing with her mind. Phera led her up a narrow staircase of painted wood toward an attic room. There was no rail, and the steps were poorly placed, so Aryn held tight to Phera’s hand, palm sweating against it, like a fool.
Phera unlocked a low door that they both had to duck under and ushered Aryn into a pleasant room draped in cerise fabric and scattered with overstuffed pillows on the bare wooden floor that seemed to be used in place of a bed. Phera sat her down on the single chair facing outward before the vanity and lit a lamp and some incense in a bowl that sat before the mirror.
“I know; it’s cold as the devil in here,” Phera said as Aryn shivered. The Fallen were fond of invoking the earthly myth, and employed it liberally throughout Raqia as a conscious acknowledgment of what the Host thought of them. Phera took off her cloak and settled it over Aryn’s shoulders, and as Aryn had suspected, she had on only the feathered sleeves made of sheer fabric and the equally sheer drape, with a skirt made out of chiffon scarves, that she had worn when she first began her dance. The lamplight glinted off her body in strategic places.
“You liked my dance,” said Phera, swaying slightly, and playing her fingers between the hanging strips of cloth at her thighs.
“Yes.” It would be stupid to deny it.
“I think you’re a very naughty boy,” said Phera, coming closer.
“I’m not…” Aryn bit her lip. Shut up! You’ll never get to see her dance again. Just shut up.
“Not naughty?” Phera straddled her legs and stroked Aryn’s thighs. Her hands were too close and Aryn scooted back.
“Don’t.”
Phera thrust her hand into the waistband of Aryn’s brother’s pants. “Or not a boy?” Aryn gasped as Phera dug her fingers in deeply to verify her suspicion. “Oh, definitely naughty, Babe. Very naughty.”
Phera’s fingers began to prickle with firespirit heat, and Aryn felt the moisture almost running from her cunt at their touch. Phera prodded her, fingers teasing around the outside, and then one slipping across the center between her damp lips, drawing a breathy gasp from her.
“No, I don’t think you deserve a lap dance after all.”
Aryn moaned as the hot fingers burrowed into her. Phera stroked her lightly for a moment, moving like silk between her aching flesh, and then thrust with expert dexterity. Aryn yielded to her, hips moving in involuntary waves, and Phera laughed and pulled her fingers away as a moan of disappointment escaped her visitor. The dancer painted her wet fingers over Aryn’s mouth and then pushed them between her lips as she had done below.
“Suckle, Babe,” she murmured in her ear. “Since you do it so well.”
Aryn suckled, tasting her own arousal on the heat of Phera’s fingers, tasting the warm skin and wanting more. Phera took the fingers away and slung her leg off Aryn’s lap as she dropped the bare garment onto the floor, once again wearing only the stylized sleeves meant to be a jab at the earthly concept of an angel’s wings. The white feathers were stark against her deep olive skin and her eyes sparkled with brimstone fire.
“Naughty Babe. What can we do with you?” She pushed the cloak over the back of the chair. “Are those even your clothes?” Aryn shook her head. “Then take them off.” The brimstone flared. Aryn pulled down her suspenders and unbuttoned her shirt, hardly daring to look at Phera as she exposed herself. Phera crouched beside her and smoothed her hands across her torso and then ran an impossibly warm tongue up one side of her ribs.
“Didn’t tell you to stop,” she breathed and yanked back on the gentleman’s bob Aryn had tied her pale brown curls into. Aryn unbuttoned the pants and began working them down as Phera’s mouth closed over her breast. The heat of her tongue increased, and Aryn’s chest was heaving as she arched beneath the firespirit, pants stalled at her thighs. Phera yanked them down to her ankles and sucked the other breast into her mouth as her fingers worried Aryn’s clit.
Phera looked up at her then, and her eyes were glowing orange. “So you want to know what it’s like with a real firespirit.”
“I didn’t know you were—”
“Grab the chair legs and don’t you move,” she ordered. Aryn put her arms behind her and clutched the top of the chair legs, and Phera darted forward toward her open thighs. Aryn saw the glowing tip of her tongue before it entered her and she cried out, nearly toppling backward into the vanity.
Phera was devouring her, the hot tongue slaking its thirst inside her, her hands nearly crushing her breasts. It never occurred to Aryn to try and scramble away or tell her to stop. Phera’s tongue was plundering her, a red-hot brand that snaked and lapped and prodded her until she thought she would die. The legs of the chair began to rock as Aryn shook, a violent storm building in her, and she began to wail and moan, rocking harder and faster against the wood floor in a desperate rhythm until she screamed and arched up on her toes into the hot mouth.
The climax tore through her in rolling waves as if the storm inside her had broken and she was now its beach, pounded and battered and tossed about like wet sand, a ferocious ocean of caps and swells hurtling onto her again and again until she was weak and trembling, pulled back into the deep until she thought she’d drown and hurled once more into an untidy heap of her own pulverized matter. And then the waves at last rolled out and stilled, leaving her a sodden, shipwrecked mess in Phera’s hands.
Phera’s tongue cooled and she sucked at Aryn gently, her hands loosening on Aryn’s breasts and teasing her nipples, and Aryn closed her eyes, tension draining from her like the sweat rolling over her skin. Phera laughed against her softly, a sound of pleasure; a wicked, hungry sound vibrating her sensitive clit; and then the heat rose like a Roman candle into her cunt as Phera began again.
Aryn wailed in protest, cupping her thighs around Phera’s head with her brother’s pants dangling from one ankle as Phera drove her once more to a frenzied pitch, hot hands moving over her breasts and pinching her nipples while her tongue scoured Aryn until she thought she would be burned away. And then she rocked violently into Phera’s mouth once more, shrieking and gasping and thrusting her ass as far forward on the chair as she could get to reach that heat.