Amalia
stop thinking so much
He is addictive, and the girl yearns for more.
The shirt divested and hist turn comes, the torch of performance once more passed, an easy give and take. One of them will bend and break, but not yet, not yet, not yet- for now she must watch through hooded eyes, enjoying his slow and languid display, the reveal of everything kept hidden now freely given away. Amalia makes no effort to hide her ardor, dark eyes tracing the muscle and bone, doing what her hands so ache to do: feel, follow, feint and feast. There is a hunger only he can sate, a gnawing desire emblazoned on her face, the high flush on her cheeks a giveaway, the way her toes curl and fingers twitch evidence of sinful thoughts. Nude but for boxers, the man at last shifts, and something in the girl clenches and leaps: will he come to her, snap, make good on the promises they have not said except through action and look and intent? Has she won the game, forced him to crumble, brought him low with naught but lust? A shiver of pleasure, anticipation, need, as Deimos maneuvers and-
-turns off the water.
Something between disappointment and amusement crashes down upon her, the realization that she has been played, a bowstring pulled taut and easy to pluck. How could he have known... but how could he not? A twisting half-grin lingers on her lips, indignation and resignation and above all, hungry lust. Biting back a groan, a moan, the girl eyes his invitation before making up her mind. Slowly, languidly, she saunters forward, a dancer's motions, a fluid stance, but not into the tub. No, it is not until she is in his orbit that the girl draws to a calculated stop, a breath, a touch, an extended hand away from touching but not quite, not quite. For a moment she is still, but for her gaze, coals raking over his exposed body, lingering wherever the girl likes: on calves, on hipbones, on muscles, on scars, before traveling up and up and up again, stones falling into the pool of his blues.
Then Amalia raises her arms up her body, an offering, an invitation, the breastband pulled loose and uncoiling, the drawers low on her hips. Mischief and desire crackle in her eyes, are written like sonnets upon her face. You win, the sinful look declares, her lip bitten delicately between her teeth, her onyx gaze hooded, her hair loose and wild as the last of her armor slips away, as she is left bare and wanton and exposed and aflame. I am yours, I am yours, I am yours.
you're breaking your own heart
