Chapter 70
Written by Bayzo Albion
The Forest Queen didn't utter a single word as she pushed me down onto the scorching sand. It burned pleasantly against my skin, as if the beach itself yearned to join in our intimate dance. She straddled me with unyielding confidence, like a rider claiming her long-awaited steed, her body pressing against mine in a rhythm that demanded surrender.
"You can't work yourself to death like this," she murmured, her hips swaying in a slow, teasing grind. Through the thin fabric of her dress, I could feel my arousal stirring lazily, awakening under the insistent pressure of her warmth. "Has even a god grown bored of the pleasures he's always craved?"
"No," I breathed, locking eyes with her, my voice rough with anticipation. "I'm always ready. I was born ready."
"Crystal clear," she replied, her lips curling into a sly, mischievous smile that promised mischief.
With a snap of her fingers, her everyday dress vanished into thin air, replaced by something far more provocative—an outfit designed not for modesty, but for conquest. Every curve-hugging line and daring cut screamed possession: "You're mine." It was armor forged for seduction, accentuating her form in ways that left no room for doubt or hesitation.
My body reacted before I even realized it, a sharp jolt of desire tightening through me as my gaze followed the contours of her new attire. The sight alone sparked a heat that surged in my chest, pulling me deeper into the snare she wove around me.
"Looks like you approve," she purred, leaning in so close that her breath danced across my lips like a forbidden whisper. "Those girls weren't exaggerating—you really do react on command."
She bit her lower lip, her eyes gleaming with triumphant excitement as she watched me strain beneath her.
Her arms wrapped around me, pulling us impossibly closer, her skin radiating a subtle, intoxicating scent of lavender that enveloped me like a spell. Her cheek brushed mine, her breath hot and electric against my ear, sending shivers racing down my spine.
Then, with deliberate slowness, she released a soft moan right into my ear—a low, trembling breath that vibrated through me, echoing in my skull and sinking straight into my core. It was the final spark.
A rush of desire tore through me, fierce and immediate, rising with the force of something ancient awakened—pressing hard against the thin boundary that still separated us.
"I just can't wrap my head around it… why didn't you make this world more like your old one?" she asked, her movements slow and hypnotic, a fluid, serpentine rhythm that called to mind a desert dancer swaying beneath the sun's unblinking gaze.
*"In my old world," I rasped, my voice roughened by the intensity between us, "too many women never received what they truly deserved from intimacy. For some, it brought nothing but discomfort; for others, it became an empty routine. Everything rushed, everything mechanical… Is that really the fate you'd want for yourself?"
She leaned in closer, her hair cascading like a silken veil across my face, her lips hovering temptingly near but never touching—an invitation wrapped in restraint.
"And yet," she whispered, her tone dipping into a playful, sultry mockery, "your hunger seems to know no bounds…"
Her words melted into the rhythm of her movements, rising and falling like slow ocean waves, turning the moment into something ritualistic—desire and ambition braided into a single, pulsing force.
A soft sound slipped from her lips, her breath trembling with the pace we kept. She traced her tongue lightly across her upper lip, leaning in as if for a kiss—only to dodge away at the last moment, her mouth brushing my cheek instead. The smug, wicked curl of her smile sent a sharp thrill through me.
"So, you want to play games?" I muttered, fighting the urge to take control, to feel the shift of power between us.
But she moved first. In one swift motion she lowered her head and let her fangs sink into my neck—gentle, almost affectionate, yet potent enough to send a wave through my entire body. Instead of pain, it blossomed into shuddering bliss, my thoughts dissolving into warm, intoxicating haze.
Another snap of her fingers, and the scene shifted.
We were now sprawled on an enormous, plush bed shrouded beneath a canopy of the finest white silk, forming a private dome that blurred the outside world into irrelevance. Everything beyond was a soft haze, as if reality had dissolved, leaving us in a cocoon of warm, inviting whiteness—like floating inside a cloud. Sunlight filtered through the fabric in gentle rays, turning our sanctuary into an intimate shrine dedicated to us alone.
I couldn't move; her bite had left me in a delicious paralysis, a dreamlike state where my body clung to the edge of slumber, unwilling to wake.
With slow, deliberate confidence, the Forest Queen slipped out of her last layer, her movements carrying the quiet danger of someone who knows exactly how much power she holds. She ran a hand over her skin in a languid sweep, her gaze locked on mine—predatory, amused, savoring the way I could do nothing but watch.
Then she draped the fabric over my eyes, plunging me into scented darkness. Lavender washed over me, thick and intoxicating, as if she'd wrapped herself around my senses entirely.
My face met the warm rise of her body, soft and steady with each breath, her heartbeat echoing close to mine in a quiet, hypnotic rhythm. For a brief moment, I wondered where she had learned to wield desire like a weapon… but the thought drowned beneath the tide of sensation.
Her hair brushed my cheek as she whispered:
"You have no idea what a woman becomes… when she knows she's truly wanted."
My arms stayed heavy, useless, while her fingers traced slow patterns across my chest, drifting lower in teasing, feather-light touches—never enough, always just out of reach. She wasn't trying to satisfy me; she wanted to let the anticipation burn.
I took a sip of the lavender-infused drink she'd conjured. Warm, creamy sweetness washed through me, soothing and dangerous at once. It tasted like her—rich, enveloping, pulling me deeper under with every swallow.
We must strive for beauty, I thought, lost in the moment. From now on, that's my mantra: pursue the exquisite and weave it into art.
A strange euphoria washed over me—intense, weightless, almost artistic in its rhythm. It rose and fell like tides, stirring something deep inside, something dangerously close to devotion rather than desire.
"I… surrender… let me—" I whispered before she silenced me with a single finger on my lips.
Her eyes carried a quiet dominion—not cruel, but inevitable, like spring commanding flowers to bloom. In that instant, I belonged to the moment, not to her body.
"Promise me you'll accelerate your plans," she said, her voice flowing like silk beneath the radiant canopy.
"I promise," I breathed, my composure thinning.
"You give me your word as a man?"
"Yes. My word as a man."
She smiled then—an enigmatic blend of authority and grace that sealed the path ahead. There was no turning back.
As if in reward, the paralysis faded. I pulled her into a tight embrace, as if reclaiming someone I'd been missing for years. Her warmth wrapped around me, steady and grounding, drawing me out of the world and into something quieter, deeper.
I dissolved into her gentleness. Every touch felt like dawn breaking after a long night—soft, healing, brushing away whatever shadows clung to me. She radiated a calm that reached far beneath the skin, mending something I hadn't realized was broken.
I knew I was bending the rules. With a thought, I summoned faint illusions—shimmering mirrors that caught only the outlines of our closeness, our movements blurred into impressionistic strokes of light and shadow. No details, just emotion: her breath, her trembling silhouette, the unspoken bond between us. In that moment, we weren't two people—we were a single heartbeat.
What makes women so mesmerizing? I wondered. Their grace? Their ability to sink so deeply into the moment that you feel like the center of a universe they create with a single breath?
She leaned close, her lips brushing the edge of my ear as she whispered:
"Now I feel it… you might just be the god I've been waiting for."
I drew her nearer, holding her with a reverence that bordered on devotion. I pressed gentle kisses along her neck and down the curve of her body—not in hunger, but in awe. Every soft sound she made felt less like desire and more like music, something sacred shared between two souls.
We moved together in quiet harmony, not with urgency but with the care of artists shaping something meaningful, our emotions guiding every motion like strokes on an unseen canvas.
"Have you heard the news?" she asked suddenly, her breath uneven, not from passion alone but from an emotion she struggled to name.
"What news?" I murmured, unwilling to break the connection between us, the rhythm we'd found together.
"The Horsemen of the Apocalypse have arrived," she whispered, her gaze drifting upward as though searching for omens in the unseen. A faint tremor slipped into her voice.
I paused, cradling her face, searching her expression. "The Horsemen…?"
She spoke the ancient names with the solemnity of prophecy, each one settling into the air like a tolling bell:
"On a white horse—Pestilence.
On a red horse—War.
On a black horse—Famine.
On a pale horse—Death."