This Ascent to Divinity is Lewder Than Expected

Rosalie lay next to her odd companion, heart finally slowing from its gallop, panting receding, and her brain returning to its better senses.

Mind no longer foggy from lust, several realizations dawned on her.

First, that the absolutely wicked things Zoey had done with her hands, the pleasure that she’d coaxed out of Rosalie’s begging lower half, had been almost unbelievable. That if Rosalie hadn’t seen Zoey’s tabula anima herself, hadn’t seen the listing of all the skills available to her, then Rosalie would be completely convinced that the dark-haired girl had had help, that her fingers had been aided by some gods-granted ability.

But they hadn’t. She was just skilled. She knew how to turn Rosalie into a puddle of melting pleasure with just her fingers and some taunting words. It was a terrifying realization—the realization how desperately Rosalie wanted to explore that capability of her companion. Thoroughly. Again and again. 

But that desire was precluded by the second discovery that fell upon Rosalie:

She could never look Zoey in the eyes again.

The things she’d said. The words that had been forced out of her. The honesty behind them. 

She was mortified. Beyond mortified. There wasn’t a word for it. Rosalie had never used such vulgar language in her entire life. And directed at herself? 

‘Fucktoy’? ‘Cock-hungry whore’?

Such degenerate phrases had never even graced the ears of the youngest heiress of the d’Celestin family. And Rosalie had been the one to say them. To mean them.

Her reputation was forever marred, regardless of whether it reached the light of day. And Zoey’s eyes weren’t the only Rosalie could never meet again. Her father’s, her sisters’, even Rosalie’s own gaze she wouldn’t be able to meet in the mirror.

‘Breed me’?

Rosalie had instructed another woman to breed her. As if she were some object. Some conquest. A collection of holes to be used as she desired. 

The concept was ludicrous. How had it happened? How had Zoey extracted those insulting words from Rosalie’s lips? And with such ease?

Rosalie knew how. She remembered the crashing waves of pleasure, the hungry need she’d never—not once—in her life felt. Not to that quantity. Not to that overwhelming, mind-erasing height.

Zoey shifted, and Rosalie, still wrapped in her embrace, jostled too. Her radiating heat—the soft curves pressing into Rosalie—was intoxicating. Skinship had never been something Rosalie was afforded. Not a d’Celestin. The royal family of the Deepshunter Guild was focused even by Wayfarer standards; Rosalie had known little comfort in her years, and never so easily offered as by the woman nestled into her side.

Partially, of course, because most would never dare. Should Father have seen how Zoey had treated her in this exchange, he’d employ brilliant minds from the Fractures over to invent a horrible retribution, something never before seen and which would live in infamy. Rosalie had been blatantly, painfully off-limits from the moment she’d started drawing suitor’s eyes.

Which was fine. Rosalie had a purpose, and romance was not it.

Perhaps that was why the indulgence had been so intoxicating.

How … those words had slipped from her mouth.

Been coaxed and pulled from her mouth.

“Not to be pushy,” Zoey mumbled into Rosalie’s ear, the intimacy of her proximity sending shivers down her spine. “But I kinda stopped halfway to take care of you.”

Take care of her. Zoey had certainly done that. She’d been melted down and reformed in powerful hands. In the curling, encouraging motions of fingers as they explored Rosalie’s insides.

The rest of what Zoey had said hit her. ‘Stopped halfway’. Zoey had been thrusting between her breasts, and into her mouth, when she’d pulled away to coerce Rosalie into saying the most embarrassing sentences she’d ever uttered—or had even passed her mind.

She wanted Rosalie to finish her off.

That emanating, scalding heat pressed against her stomach, Zoey spooning her like she was, was her cock draped across Rosalie’s stomach. And it wasn’t from a friendly interest. Rosalie’s eyes flicked down, taking in the enormous girlcock laid across her.

Her heart rate picked up.

“Rosie?” Zoey murmured.

Rosalie realized she hadn’t responded. But how could she? How could she ever speak again? After what Zoey had heard escape her lips?

What did she think of her, now? Not that a member of the d’Celestin family cared for the opinions of nobodies, and that was what Zoey was, truth told, but the concept still pained her. As a matter of her birthright, Rosalie always presented a solid appearance of herself. It was the one thing that mattered as much as competence, in the eyes of the d’Celestin family. Ability, reputation. The pillars on which Rosalie’s life rested.

And now, the second—reputation—lay toppled, crumbling. 

Your stupid slut is begging to feel good. She wants it so badly. Please. Please.

Rosalie thought she might heave.

“Hey,” Zoey said softly. Her hand brushed away a strand of Rosalie’s hair, and Rosalie realized just now that her eyes had squeezed shut. “Did I go too far? How are you?”

The gentle concern washed through Rosalie, and she breathed in—and it caught in her throat.

“Ah, shit,” Zoey said. “I did, didn’t I? I thought you were having fun.”

Rosalie had been having a lot more than fun. The concept of ‘Rosalie d’Celestin’ hadn’t even existed—what had been in its place was a sludge of hot, burning plasma, a thing that was almost a sentient being, but only wanted and needed and formed no true rational thoughts.

“I’m fine,” Rosalie said. Her voice was locked with ironclad control. She knew how to be composed in face of anything. Terror, excitement, pain—she’d be trained for it from a startlingly young age.

She made an addendum. But not pleasure. The opposite. The deprivation, perhaps, worked against her.

Zoey’s soft lips pressed into Rosalie’s neck, then another kiss, just beneath her jaw. Rosalie couldn’t help the way her neck craned, opening up the space—such an indecorous permission, and offered without thought. This is the problem.

“We all say stupid shit when we’re about to come,” Zoey said, amusement lacing her tone, as if this were some joke. “And I bullied it out of you, so you can’t be blamed.”

She knew exactly the source of Rosalie’s distress. But of course she did. After what she’d done? Pretty obvious.

And for all the reassurance, Rosalie doubted most people stooped to the level Rosalie had, said the things she did, regardless of how lost in the moment they were. Even if they did, how ‘most people’ acted didn’t matter. Rosalie wasn’t most people. Couldn’t be. She was held to higher standards.

And had fallen lower, regardless.

“Seriously,” Zoey said. “If you keep pouting, I will start showering you in compliments. I’ll be super embarrassing about it, over the top as possible.”

Rosalie’s eyes flicked open. For a brief moment they caught Zoey’s—from so up close, those deep green irises bored into her—before Rosalie glanced away, as if burned. Because there wasn’t any judgment there. Only teasing amusement. Which didn’t make sense.

She leaned up, extricating herself from Zoey’s grasp. “Let’s get you taken care of. We need to keep moving.”

“Nope,” Zoey said. “I want you to tell me all that shit you said doesn’t matter, first. Because it doesn’t.”

Rosalie stared down at her companion.

Zoey frowned, then sat up herself. She took Rosalie’s face in both her hands. Rosalie had genuinely no idea why she allowed it. Why she leaned into it, even, and her eyes closed. “It doesn’t,” Zoey said. Somehow the sheer certainty in her voice started to convince her. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being … all those things you said.” Cock-hungry whore, Rosalie’s mind supplied. “But what we say in the heat of the moment is for fun. It’s a way to take a load off. And it says nothing about who we are. Not to mention, I never kiss and tell, so if you’re worrying about that, you’re insulting my honor.”

How, exactly, this girl knew what was plaguing Rosalie’s thoughts, and addressed each in order, baffled Rosalie. Was she that obvious? Or was it Zoey in specific who had such an easy read on her? She wanted to be upset. But with her face cradled in Zoey’s hands, and being reassured in such a soft, concerned voice, she couldn’t be. 

Rosalie sighed, the tension somehow draining from her. “You’re reading into things,” she said simply, opening her eyes and meeting Zoey’s. “I was merely tired. As reasonable, after what you did to me. Now please, stop being so dramatic.”

A smile split Zoey’s face. Rosalie’s deflection—her attempts at nonchalance—might not have been as convincing as she’d hoped.

Why does she care that her reassurances worked?

Rosalie rolled her eyes. “Let’s get you taken care of.”

“No complaints there,” Zoey grinned. “If you’re taking suggestions, can we do what we were before?”

For all her sweetness, she’s still a pervert.

“Fine,” Rosalie said. “But don’t think it’s becoming a regular thing.”