Pann
catch me barking up a tree, smile wide as money green
She vanishes and my breath catches—surprise cutting through the heat, followed by a flash of disappointment at the sudden absence of her warmth. But then—blessed Dygra—she’s back, a rush of motion and heat, legs locking around my bare waist, arms anchoring me as her mouth claims mine.
I draw in a deep breath of her—smoke, silk, sin—and there’s not a shred of hesitation in the way I kiss her back. It’s hungry, immediate, reverent in its own debauched way, as if I’m already at the altar she promised. One arm wraps solidly beneath her, holding her tight to me, the other sliding up beneath her clothing, fingers greedy for the heat of her skin, urging her to shed the barrier entirely.
I try—by the gods—to summon flame, to burn away her silks as she’d done to me, but nothing answers. The frustration bubbles up in a low growl against her mouth. No matter. There are other ways to strip bare a priestess.
I turn, stepping toward the flattest stretch of the crevice wall, pressing her back to it so I can press into her, into that impossible heat. My hands tangle in her curls, pulling her head back just enough for my mouth to descend down the column of her throat. I kiss her there, slow at first, then harder—biting, pulling with my lips until I know the mark will linger, a visible prayer written on her skin.
One hand fists in her silks, pulling the fabric upward in impatient, reverent tugs, eager to see her bare before me. The other roams, mapping her curves like scripture, memorizing every line. I’m rock hard against her, aching with the hunger of centuries denied, my body thrumming with need and devotion both.
I draw in a deep breath of her—smoke, silk, sin—and there’s not a shred of hesitation in the way I kiss her back. It’s hungry, immediate, reverent in its own debauched way, as if I’m already at the altar she promised. One arm wraps solidly beneath her, holding her tight to me, the other sliding up beneath her clothing, fingers greedy for the heat of her skin, urging her to shed the barrier entirely.
I try—by the gods—to summon flame, to burn away her silks as she’d done to me, but nothing answers. The frustration bubbles up in a low growl against her mouth. No matter. There are other ways to strip bare a priestess.
I turn, stepping toward the flattest stretch of the crevice wall, pressing her back to it so I can press into her, into that impossible heat. My hands tangle in her curls, pulling her head back just enough for my mouth to descend down the column of her throat. I kiss her there, slow at first, then harder—biting, pulling with my lips until I know the mark will linger, a visible prayer written on her skin.
One hand fists in her silks, pulling the fabric upward in impatient, reverent tugs, eager to see her bare before me. The other roams, mapping her curves like scripture, memorizing every line. I’m rock hard against her, aching with the hunger of centuries denied, my body thrumming with need and devotion both.
you should mind your business, but my business is the place to be
