The Thread and the Thirst

Elorae sat rigid in the passenger seat of Steve's strange, humming carriage, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her knuckles were white. They had driven in silence for much of the way, the glow of the city slipping past, until at last Steve slowed and pulled the car to a stop at the side of the street.

Joey's home. Her power had drawn her there, pulling on her mind through every twist and turn in this bright, overwhelming world. When her ordeal was done, would this tether dissipate? Would she be able to close her eyes without seeing the line that connected her to the young man? Perhaps the distance between their worlds would be enough to dull the connection. Perhaps.

Elorae stared at the building, a home much like the others around it. Only her power allowed her to know what was hidden inside. To every other observer it would be indistinguishable from all others. Not that Joey was hiding. This was his life. It had certainly changed thanks to Elorae's inadvertent intervention, but it was to no fault of his own. But it was changed nonetheless.

She swallowed. He had not sent word. Not one message. And she had been patient. The threat of an escalation, or worse, an alienation from Joey had been terrifying. She had her own power, but the idea that he could easily turn her creation against her, that he could undo her very being and rewrite her as he saw fit, was something she hadn't considered. And so she had kept her distance. But there was no time for patience anymore. The threat in her own world now threatened this one, and it was time for her to intervene.

She licked her lips. "I need to know what I'm walking into."

Steve glanced at her, then back at the house. "Would you like me to knock, Your Majesty?"

"No." Her voice was too sharp. She softened, smiling to reassure her accidental servant. "No… let me."

She drew a long breath, closing her eyes. At first, all she felt was the heat of her own worry. Then she let her power seep outward, fine as spider-silk, a silver thread drifting from her and across the air, winding toward the house. It stretched through the walls, through plaster and wood, until it brushed against—

Her eyes flew open. Her lips parted.

"Oh my..."

The thread had found Joey. But what she sensed there—heat, urgency, a pulsing rhythm of desire—was nothing like what she had expected. His body was awash with sensation, his mind lost in it, and through the thread it poured into her like wine through a funnel.

Elorae flushed hot from throat to chest. She grabbed the seat beneath her thighs, her back arching. Heat pooled low in her belly, an ache blooming that stole her breath. Her thighs pressed together, helpless against the sensation she could not claim as her own. The feelings weren't hers, not truly—but with the tether formed, she couldn't help but drown in them. His arousal, his thrill, his pleasure, it all pulsed through her until she could barely think.

Beside her, Steve leaned forward, alarmed. "Your Majesty? Are you okay?"

She turned to him. Only—when she looked, it was not as she always had. The strength in his arms, the way his jaw flexed as he worried for her, even the scent of him—all of it struck her differently, painfully alive, unbearably appealing. She stared, fixed on his face, his body, amazed at the decadence of sitting in such close proximity to a man so incredibly attractive.

It was Joey's doing—his passion spilling into her—but her eyes would not let go of Steve.

"I..." Her voice faltered. "I... am well. Too well, perhaps." She laughed shakily, and it sounded wrong in her own ears.

Steve frowned, but his hand was gentle where it touched her arm. "You don't look well. You're flushed. Do I need to get you to a hospital?"

She stared at that hand. Then at his mouth. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her tether was **** wider and wider by the intensity of Joey's lust. His desire thrust into her through her own attempt at probing, over and over, deeper and deeper. The longer she fought it, the stronger Joey's fire spread in her veins. She could not push it back. She was already drowning.

And so, trembling, she gave in.

Elorae leaned forward and kissed Steve. She seized his mouth, fierce and trembling, her hands clawing at his shirt like a drowning woman clutching rope.

For one dizzy heartbeat she told herself it was madness, that she should stop. But then his mouth yielded, surprised but warm, and she let herself fall.

And while she frantically worked the buttons on Steve's shirt, Elorae realized that whatever Joey was doing inside, whatever tide he had unleashed, she would not fight it anymore. She would let it carry her—carry them both—until he was finished.

And maybe beyond.