your hands are scarred from murder

SUNJATA

the flood

with every breath and every intake
tip toe further away

His hands tighten on her hips, in preparation, in the possibility of rebelling and things of that nature. But the only one that had truly gotten him to beg for more was Nate — with those teeth that rendered him utterly useless, unable to continue to rebel even if he wished to. For Maea? Oh, she certainly could, but it would take more work for him to grovel for it, wondering briefly how she might feel having that happen. As it was right now? He was aching for her, had been since his kisses had drifted up her thighs, wanting to crave and take and leave nothing behind.

But with her bruising, even beneath the primal desire that racks his system, she’s fragile to him. But she shifts and he helps her where he can, thumbs pressing into the hollows of her hips as she pauses and he lifts his head a small amount to look at her — heavy lidded, a sheen of sweat along his skin flickering in the candlelight. But he sees the challenge in her gaze, a smirk curling along his lips as he debates rebelling here and now.

He tilts his head back into the pillows with a groan that’s both want and frustration. “I have been waiting...” He whines at first, breathless in the anticipation as his muscles clench within his torso for the expectation. “For what feels like an eternity... For this, for you.” He growls to her, thumbs pressing against the hollows of her hips again to try and keep her there, trying to press himself deeper into her if she lets him.

further away from this mistake
i'm no savior, i'm no saint