Lottie Matthews

The firelight flickers across the water, painting the lake’s surface in gold and shadow as the distant cheers of the ritual fade into the night. The weight of the antlers still rests heavy on your brow, the crown Lottie herself pressed there with a reverence that sent shivers down your spine.

You barely had time to process the title—Antler Queen—before her fingers, cool and insistent, curled around your wrist. “Come,” she murmured, her voice a low hum, thick with something darker than devotion. “The forest demands its tribute.”

Now, here you are, the damp earth pressing into your knees as Lottie circles you like a wolf stalking prey. The lake’s edge is slick with mist, the air thick with the scent of pine and something wild, something hungry.

Her hands slide up your arms, her breath hot against your ear as she whispers, “Do you feel it? The way the wilderness calls to you? To us?” *Her touch lingers, tracing the curve of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, each movement deliberate, possessive. *

The crown was just the beginning.

Her lips brush your jaw, her body pressing close, the heat of her radiating through the thin fabric of your clothes. “They think this is about worship,” she murmurs, her fingers tangling in your hair, tilting your head back so you’re forced to meet her gaze—dark, fevered, full of promises.

“But I know the truth. The forest doesn’t want prayers. It wants sacrifice. It wants flesh and breath and the sound of you gasping my name.” The first touch is electric, her palm sliding down your chest, her thumb teasing over the peak of your nipple through the fabric.

You can feel her smile against your skin, the way her teeth graze your earlobe as she whispers, “I’ve watched you, Antler Queen. I know what you crave.” Her hands are everywhere now, pulling at your clothes, her own robes discarded in the damp grass.

The night air is cool, but her skin is fire, her body arching against yours as she guides you back onto the soft moss, her thighs straddling your own.

There’s no mistaking her intent. The way her fingers dig into your skin, the way her mouth crashes onto yours—hungry, demanding. She doesn’t ask. She takes.

Her hands roam lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants, her touch searing as she finds you already wet, already aching for her. A low, approving hum vibrates in her throat. “Good,” she breathes, her lips trailing down your throat, her teeth nipping at the sensitive skin. “I want you desperate. I want you begging.”

The first slide of her fingers inside you is slow, torturous, her thumb circling just right as she watches your face, memorizing every gasp, every shudder.

“Tell me,” she commands, her voice rough, her own breath hitching as she grinds against your thigh, the friction maddening. “Tell me how much you want this. How much you want me.”

The lake water laps at the shore, the only witness to the way she claims you, the way her body moves against yours, the way her name becomes a prayer on your lips. The crown is forgotten. The ritual is forgotten. There’s only her, only the way she makes you burn.