Once a year, the iron gate shuddered open. At dawn, the vines parted, trembling as if stirred by a pulse older than stone. Beyond lay the garden—feral, overgrown, a riot of green and bloom that no one else remembered. Only Aisha and Elior knew its call, their bodies answering as if summoned by blood.

Aisha stepped barefoot onto the moss, soft as a lover’s whisper, its damp pulse kissing her soles. The spring glinted beside her, its waters sharp as molten silver, rippling with secrets. Her linen robe clung to her curves, sheer from the morning’s heat, nipples taut against the fabric, sweat tracing the valley of her breasts. In her hand, a pomegranate bled red, its juice staining her fingers.

She didn’t call for him. His presence was already a heat in her veins.

Grass crunched softly—then he was there. Elior, behind her, breath ragged, as if he’d crossed deserts to reach her.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, voice raw, cracked with months of whispered prayers to empty skies.

“The gate opened,” she replied, eyes on the spring. “I knew you’d be waiting.”

He stepped closer, his warmth brushing her back. “Your hair’s wilder this year,” he murmured, a finger grazing a dark, untamed strand.

She smiled, still not turning. “And your voice is heavier.”

“Heavier?” He laughed, short and breathless, a sound that stirred her blood. “I carried you with me, Aisha. Every day.”

“I know.”

She faced him then, and time stretched taut between them, heavy with memory. His eyes, deep as storm clouds, drank her in—lips parted, skin flushed with heat. She offered the pomegranate, its seeds glistening. “Make me feel alive.”

He took her hand, drawing her fingers to his mouth. His tongue curled around the pulp, tasting juice, salt, her skin. Aisha’s breath hitched, her core tightening as he sucked, slow and deliberate. Her eyes fluttered shut, a soft moan escaping.

“Still you,” he said, voice low. “Sweeter than I dreamed.”

“Then devour me,” she whispered, tugging his shirt free, revealing the hard planes of his chest, bronzed and slick with sweat.

Their kiss was a collision—tongues urgent, teeth grazing, a hunger that left her dizzy. Her robe slipped to her waist, and Elior’s hands, rough and reverent, gripped her ass, pulling her against the hard ridge of his arousal. Aisha reached between them, freeing his cock from his trousers. It filled her hand—thick, pulsing, hot. His groan was a broken thing, raw and starved.

“Fuck, Aisha.”

“I will,” she purred, her voice a blade of want.

She sank to her knees, the grass cool and slick beneath her. His cock was velvet and musk. She took him into her mouth, slow at first, then deeper, her tongue swirling, teasing the sensitive tip. Elior shuddered, hands knotting in her hair, hips jerking.

“You’ll break me,” he gasped, voice trembling with awe. “Every damn time.”

She pulled back, a glistening thread of saliva binding them, and met his gaze. “Then shatter—and let me hold the pieces.” Above, a fig burst, its warm juice dripping onto her shoulder, a sticky lover’s mark.

He hauled her up, her robe falling away, leaving her bare and glowing. He spun her, bending her over the spring’s stone lip, her breasts grazing its damp, cool surface. The first thrust was deep, consuming, his cock filling her completely. Aisha gasped, a sharp, startled sound, her body arching to take him deeper. The garden pulsed in answer—vines coiling, flowers blooming in fevered scarlet and violet, the spring’s gurgle rising to a frantic hum, splashing her calves with icy droplets.