Unknown - The_Growing_589064

She is made lean and hard, lithe muscles stretched over long bones. The form of the hunting animal, elegant in understatement—long-legged cheetah moving with harsh and angular grace through the high grass, gerfalcon stooping on her prey like a meteor out of the blue heaven.

“I depend on you, goddammit.” A tremor runs through her, part fear, part not. “You have no right to risk yourself alone.”

“I wasn’t in any danger. No greater than we face here, every day.”

Kirsten opens her mouth to make the obvious retort, but instead looks away, silent. I risked as much, myself. Hypocrite.

But if she died, I would be so alone. So alone.

Again.

Intolerable.

Her breath catching, Kirsten runs her hands up Koda’s arms, over her shoulders and up into her hair, pulling her head down. Dakota’s mouth meets hers, hot and open, and Kirsten’s tongue traces the austere lines of the other’s lips, savoring the heat and the acerbic tang of salt. Koda pulls back abruptly, lowering her head to Kirsten’s throat to trace a line of hard kisses from her ear to the hollow of her collarbones.

She can feel the heat of Dakota’s skin through her clothing, the hardness of her nipples through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Fire begins in the cleft between her legs, licks down her thighs and up her spine, knotting in her belly. “Bedroom,” she gasps, pulling back just enough to move, drawing Koda after her by the hand.

Dakota growls deep in her throat. The scent of blood on the clothes at her feet stirs her; a primal, animal sensation that is equal parts rage and lust.

The lust of the battle she’s fought.

The lust of the blood she’s spilled.

The lust of the woman who stands before her, so open and so ready.

It all coalesces within her, a spiral of red and black, pulsing with the beat of her heart, growing more acute as the scent of blood mingles with the scent of Kirsten’s need, and the scent of her own. It pulls each muscle taut, tension thrumming like a live wire, threatening to burn out of control with the tiniest of sparks.

Pausing only to kick the pile of bloody clothing out of view into the bathroom, Kirsten leads Dakota into the bedroom that has become theirs. Like a distant drum, Koda feels the pounding of her blood in its hidden channels, flowing hot as molten earth from the veins of Ina Maka. As she moves, Kirsten’s free hand claws at the fastening of her jeans, pushing them down around her ankles where she can step free of them. Her sandals follow, and she looses Dakota’s hand just long enough to pull her shirt over her head, flinging it unheeded onto the floor.

“You hunger,” Kirsten states as she stares up into a face haloed with black silk and lighted by heated silver eyes.

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

Fully naked, Dakota presses her roughly down onto the bed and stands for a long moment, taking in the compact body before her. Her sight narrows, hunter vision, and she runs her eyes over Kirsten’s face, open now with hunger to match her own, eyes dilated to midnight pools in their thin rim of green. She notes the pool of shadow at the base of the throat where the pulse beats visibly in its blue vein; her breasts rising and falling in short, sharp spasms, tight rippled flesh about her nipples; the hollows of ribcage and belly; the shadows between the lean legs. “Mitawa,” she growls, low in her throat. “Winan mitawa.”

She kneels on the bed, predator, hunter, running one hand over the Kirsten’s belly, tracing the hollows of her hipbones, slipping between her thighs. The pulse beats there, too, against her hand as Kirsten’s legs part for her and she runs her thumb through the soft curling hair to spread the lips of her lover’s sex. The wetness flows free there, and she growls, deep and long.

She feels Kirsten’s body jerk as she finds the nub of her clitoris, circling it slowly, pressing hard against its own hardness. Her mouth follows, and Kirsten moans, a low, animal sound, as her hands tangle in Koda’s hair. Dakota scarcely feels it, caught up in the throbbing of flesh against her mouth, the blood singing against her lips. She pulls away abruptly, running fingers down the wet curve of flesh, sinking fingers deep into Kirsten’s body and withdrawing only to thrust again and again, feeling the other woman’s hips buck against the long, hard strokes. Growling, needing, she adds another finger, feeling the tender tissues stretch to their limit as she pushes inside, curling her fingers into blunt claws.

From somewhere comes a cry, piercing and wild, and hot liquid flows over her hand and Kirsten’s thighs. The other woman’s body shudders as the waves of orgasm beat over her, pounding their rhythm against Koda’s hand.

Kirsten feels the cry leave her throat, a wild thing escaping into the air. Her body shudders with the force of her coming, pleasure so intense it is hardly distinguishable from pain shaking her flesh loose from her bones. Above her she sees the strong curve of Koda’s spine, the fall of her hair spilling down her back like a cataract. Her lover’s fingers withdraw from her, Koda turns to trace curving signs on her belly with her own essence. “Mitawa,” she says again, huskily. “Mine.”

“Mine,” Kirsten echoes. “You’re mine.”

Rolling over onto her side, she brings Koda down beside her, covering the long body with her own. “Mine,” she says again, tongue outlining Koda’s mouth, licking away the fine beads of sweat that have gathered over her lip. Moving down the column of her neck she laps at the moisture there, savoring the salt taste mingled with the sharp sweetness of lavender that runs along her tongue. Drunk, says the small part of her mind still capable of words, drunk with her.

Koda stretches under her, her hips lifting blindly, searching. “Wait,” says Kirsten. Beneath her lips, Koda’s throat vibrates with a small, incoherent sound, half moan, half growl. For answer, Kirsten presses her down against the bed again and sinks her teeth into Koda’s shoulder, tasting salt again as blood flows.

“Damn vampire,” Koda breathes, her fingers digging into Kirsten’s arm. But Kirsten pulls away, biting her own forearm this time, pressing the flesh with its thin red trickle against Dakota’s lips, feeling sharp white teeth against the edge of the wound as Koda sucks at it. Kirsten draws her arm away, then, and brings her own mouth down on Dakota’s, stained now scarlet as her own. She feels a shudder pass through Koda’s body as their tongues meet, tasting themselves and each other. Blood of my blood. The phrase floats up from some dark place in her mind.

“Hunka.” It is Koda’s voice, no more than a breath ghosting over her ear. She does not know the word, though she knows what it must mean. Bound now, inseparable. For this life and forever.

Her mouth moves to Koda’s breast, tongue swirling around the nipple, her free hand slipping down the smooth skin of her flank to slip between her legs. They part for her, and she trails her fingers along the tender skin, rakes through the triangle of dark curls at their apex, slips her fingertip into the growing wetness beneath her hand, withdraws to trace again the long muscles of flank and thigh. Koda’s head tosses against the quilt, eyes narrowed to blue slits, her breath coming in small, hard gasps.

“What do you want?” Kirsten whispers. “Tell me.”

“Want—”

“Is it this?” Kirsten’s hand covers Koda’s sex, spreading the flesh wide to press her mouth against the clitoris, tracing its shape with her tongue. She feels Koda tense, her climax gathering, and withdraws. “Or is it this?” she asks, her fingers following her mouth, then sliding down circle the hot entrance to Koda’s body.

“Want—”

“Tell me.”