They stripped each other again, but with slow reverence. Each article of clothing folded carefully and placed aside. Each kiss was long, unhurried. Their hands moved like prayer.
Sophie laid Jude back on a soft pile of moss, her lips trailing from his collarbone down to his hips, kissing each scar, each freckle, each piece of him. One by one, the others joined, touching him, stroking him, whispering words of love and power and devotion. They circled him like priestesses around a sacred flame.
And then Lucy climbed onto him first, slow and aching, her body fitting his like they had never been separate. She rode him with tears in her eyes, holding his face as she whispered, "Make me yours again."
He did. Every thrust, every groan, every kiss was a promise.
When she came, her cry echoed through the trees, and the tree behind them pulsed.
