Chapter 7: The Garden’s Hunger

Ivy’s fingers traced Diana’s collarbone with the delicacy of a botanist handling a rare orchid. “Show me,” she’d said. And now her mouth descended. The first touch was cool—surprisingly cool, like morning dew on grass. Ivy’s lips brushed Diana’s forehead, then her temple, then the curve of her cheekbone. Each contact lasted only a heartbeat, a series of soft, exploratory kisses that mapped the architecture of Diana’s face. Diana’s breathing faltered. “Shh.” Ivy’s breath ghosted across her skin. “I’m studying you.” The green lips traveled lower. Along Diana’s jaw. Down the column of her throat, where the Lasso still hummed its golden warmth. Ivy’s tongue emerged—pale green, glistening—and drew a slow line across Diana’s pulse point. The taste made Ivy pause. “Salt,” she murmured. “And something else. Something metallic. Like lightning about to strike.” Harley’s voice drifted from the foot of the bed. “Told you she was special, Red.” Ivy didn’t answer. Her mouth continued its descent. She reached Diana’s breasts and stopped. Those forest-shadow eyes studied the dark nipples, still hard from the cool air and the lingering arousal. Ivy’s hand rose, cupping the weight of one breast, her thumb circling the areola without touching the peak. “Harley marked you here.” Her finger traced a faint bruise. “And here.” Another, lower. “She’s always been possessive of her toys.” “I’m not her—” Ivy’s mouth closed over Diana’s nipple. The sensation stole the words from Diana’s throat. Ivy’s tongue was cool and smooth, lapping at the hardened peak with slow, measured strokes. She sucked gently, drawing the nipple deeper, and Diana’s back arched off the silk.

A vine slithered from Ivy’s wrist. It wrapped around Diana’s other breast, constricting just enough to make the flesh swell. The tip of the vine found her nipple and curled around it, squeezing in rhythm with Ivy’s mouth. “Oh, fuck.” The words escaped Diana before she could stop them. Ivy released her nipple with a wet pop. “Language, Princess.” She moved lower. Her lips traced the ridges of Diana’s abdomen, dipping into her navel, tasting the salt and sweat and residual venom that still clung to her skin. The vine remained on her breast, still squeezing, still teasing. Diana’s hands fisted in the black silk sheets. The chains were gone—Harley had removed them—but she felt bound anyway, pinned by Ivy’s deliberate exploration. “She’s trembling, Red.” Harley’s voice was thick now. Husky. “Look at her thighs.” Ivy looked. Diana’s legs were pressed together, the muscles taut, the skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Ivy’s hands settled on her knees and pushed. Diana resisted. Not consciously—her body simply refused to cooperate. The vulnerability of being spread open, exposed to this woman who had every reason to hate her, made her thighs clamp tighter. “Open.” Ivy’s voice was soft. Not a command. An invitation. “Let me see what Harley found so irresistible.” The Lasso glowed. Diana’s legs fell apart. Ivy settled between them, her green face hovering above Diana’s mound. The dark curls were damp, matted from the earlier fucking, the lips beneath still swollen and pink. Ivy’s nostrils flared. She inhaled. Deep. Slow. Deliberate. “You smell like venom,” Ivy said, her voice dropping to something almost reverent. “And Harley. And sex.” Another inhale, longer this time. “But underneath all that ... you smell like the sea. Like salt spray and ancient stone. Like something that’s been alive for a very long time.” Her fingers traced the edge of Diana’s outer lips without parting them.

“I want to taste it.” She lowered her mouth. The first contact of Ivy’s tongue against Diana’s cunt was unlike anything the Amazon had ever felt. It wasn’t warm—it was cool, almost cold, like pressing against a stream in early spring. The shock of it made Diana gasp. Ivy’s tongue traveled upward. It parted her outer lips with deliberate slowness, tracing the full length of her slit from entrance to clit. The taste of Diana’s arousal coated Ivy’s tongue—thick, salty, with that metallic undertone she’d noticed before. “You’re drenched.” Ivy’s voice vibrated against Diana’s flesh. “Did Harley leave you like this? Or is it me?” “Both.” The Lasso pulled the truth from Diana like a fish on a line. “It’s both.” Ivy hummed—a sound of dark satisfaction—and her tongue pressed deeper. It found Diana’s clit and circled it once, twice, three times. The Amazon’s hips bucked. Her hands flew to Ivy’s head, fingers tangling in the red hair, feeling the living vines woven through the strands. Then Ivy’s tongue changed. Diana felt it happen—a ripple of muscle, a shifting of flesh. The tongue in her cunt divided, split, became two. Each half moved independently, writhing against her with separate purposes. “What—” The first tongue plunged into her cunt. It pushed past her entrance, stretching her open, filling her with that impossible coolness. Diana felt it curl inside her, pressing against her front wall, finding the rough patch of nerves that made her vision blur. The second tongue snaked upward. It circled her asshole—the tight ring of muscle still slick with the purple oil from Harley’s earlier preparations. The tip pressed gently, insistently, and Diana’s body opened for it. “ Fuck —” Both tongues moved simultaneously. One fucked into her cunt with deep, rolling thrusts. The other pushed past her asshole, sliding into her back channel with a wet, obscene sound. They curled toward each other, separated only by the thin wall of flesh between them, and Diana felt every millimeter of contact. Her back arched off the bed.