FREE USE in Primitive World - Chapter 365: Zephyra’s POV

Chapter 365: Chapter 365: Zephyra’s POV

He moved his hands lower, slipping past the dimples of her lower back and gripping the edges of the skimpy linen wrap tied around her hips. The fabric was already riding up dangerously high, soaked completely through with her sweat.

Sol didn’t pull it off, but he didn’t respect the boundary either.

He slid his large, calloused hands right over the thin, wet fabric, gripping the heavy, soft meat of her thighs. He squeezed hard, his fingers digging into the muscle, pulsing a heavy, concentrated wave of the Free Use power directly into her legs.

Zephyra’s entire body went rigid for a split second, locking up from the sheer, blinding overload of pleasure, before she melted completely into a mess of raw, breathless whimpers.

Sol began to work his hands down her legs. He massaged the backs of her thighs, his thumbs digging deep into the flesh, pulling and kneading the tight muscles that had held her steady on that watchtower.

Every single time he applied pressure, he fed her another heavy dose of the silver essence. The power acted like a magnifying glass for her physical senses, turning a simple, firm touch into a mind-shattering shockwave.

He traced the sensitive, delicate skin behind her knees, dragging his nails lightly across the sweat-slicked flesh.

Zephyra practically screamed into her arms, her legs kicking weakly against the mat, completely unable to handle the intense overstimulation. She was a total mess. The proud, untouchable, mysterious beauty who commanded the sky was currently writhing in the dirt like a desperate beast, entirely addicted to the rough touch of his hands.

“Please…” she gasped out, tossing her head to the side. Her long dark hair was a tangled mess, plastered to her wet cheek. Her dark eyes were blown wide, completely unfocused, hazy, and swimming with raw heat. “Sol… it burns. It feels… oh Goddess, it feels…”

“Feels like what?” Sol taunted darkly. He dragged his hands slowly back up her calves, sliding over the backs of her knees, up her thick thighs, and hooking his fingers right under the edge of her lower wrap, stopping just millimeters away from where she wanted him the most.

“More…” she begged, her voice totally wrecked, stripping away every last ounce of her shamanic pride. She pushed her hips violently back into him, grinding her soft curves directly against the hard, aching bulge straining heavily against his leather pants. “Don’t stop… please don’t stop…”

That was it.

The dam completely shattered. The feeling of her grinding against him, openly begging for it, totally obliterated whatever thin, logical restraint Sol had left in his brain. The hot, incense-filled air of the room felt like it was literally boiling. His blood was literal fire.

He didn’t give a damn about tribal politics. He didn’t care if she was the High Shaman. He didn’t care about the consequences for tomorrow. Right now, she was just a woman begging to be taken, and he was starving.

Sol let out a low, feral growl that vibrated deep in his chest. He ripped his hands away from her thighs and reached straight for the heavy iron buckle of his own belt.

….

For Zephyra, the last ten minutes had completely shattered her reality.

If someone had told her yesterday that she would be lying face-down on a woven mat, whimpering and begging an outsider to take her, she would have boiled the flesh off their bones for the sheer disrespect. She was the High Shaman of the Veynar. She was the voice of the Great Orrath. She commanded the storms, the earth, and the very life force of the tribe.

She was untouchable.

Decades of holding that terrifying, heavy mantle had built an impenetrable wall around her. The men of the tribe didn’t look at her with lust, they looked at her with pure, suffocating fear. They kept their heads bowed. They treated her like a living god, a dangerous weapon that needed to be appeased. It was a cold, incredibly lonely existence, locked inside a beautiful, mature vessel that nobody dared to touch.

When the storm spell broke her, leaving her veins feeling like cracked glass and her bones aching with a deep, hollow chill, she had retreated to her grove to suffer in silence. Like she always did.

To say she was exhausted would be a massive understatement.

The storm spell had drained her to the absolute dregs. It was the peak of the Shamanic path, a brutal, unforgiving art that demanded heavy tolls from the flesh. To command the sky, she had practically offered her own vitality as collateral. Now, sitting in the sweltering heat of her private quarters, stripped down to nothing but a few tight linen wraps, she was forcing the ambient essence of the grove back into her bruised, aching body.

Every muscle in her back felt like it had been tied into thick, rigid knots. Her bones ached with a deep, hollow chill that even the burning heat couldn’t chase away.

But then, Sol walked in.

She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t need to. She could feel him.

The heavy, thudding footsteps on the polished floorboards belonged to someone who didn’t care about the sacred quiet of the Shamanic Grove. It was the boy. The outsider. Sol.

She kept cycling her essence, her chest rising and falling heavily, but all of her sharp senses zeroed in on him. He had stopped dead in his tracks right inside the doorway.

And just like before, and completely unlike others, he didn’t bow his head. He didn’t tremble.

Instead, she felt his gaze.

It wasn’t the fearful, trembling reverence that the acolytes and the Vanguard warriors gave her. The men of the Veynar tribe looked at her like she was a loaded weapon, something dangerous and untouchable that could curse their bloodlines with a single word. They kept their eyes glued to the floor.

But Sol wasn’t looking at the floor. He was staring directly at her. And staring very hard.