Deepwood Weald [m] and you can hold me, like he held her

Snow might have fell but Reilly was far from cold. From one year of her birth to now, she had been told the rites of Beltane—the ways in which the horned God would come to her, and how a woman’s body could blossom with life. She had learned the act of pleasure was one that was sacred, surely—but experiencing was something else entirely.

He guided her—Reilly all but relinquished control to him. Tumultuous, torturous. He held no name for her to cry out to, and so her words her broken between that of the common and those of her kinfolk as she encouraged him.

A union that was sweet and slow—and yet heated, rushed with need. She held him in a certain aftermath—how many hours had gone by, now?—and while she quaked still from everything he has bestowed upon her, she pulled him close for another lingering kiss—reverent. “You have created me anew,” she murmured, breathlessly.

Create me new, again.

And again.