tell the wolves I'm home
Caresses were enough to already unearth a shudder rippling through his flesh, and her statement a furrowed brow. Confusion, first and foremost, even as his body instinctively turned into roaming fingers, the pleasurable spread of motion through his spine and down his throat instigating a low grumble in his chest, while he struggled to formulate thoughts. Pondering, if this was somehow punishment for all his prior teasing and taunts, his formidable relish in bringing her to grander and carnal heights well, and multiple times, before himself, or something else altogether.
And Deimos wondered if this was supposed to be a struggle, because all he craved and yearned to do was reach and pull and provoke, to rankle his own fingers along her thighs or map his way across her skin; reach new paths and sojourns, cause her breath to hitch and come undone. To give and give and give until they were spent and then ready for more instances later; uncertain why accepting this current protocol seemed much more challenging than others he’d surmised and presided upon.
The essence of himself being spoiled was all the more confounding, and his eyes widened upon the reflection, before narrowing at her hooded gaze, a war over his own needs and her wants. “I cannot promise that will last,” the roughened gravel of his voice surmised honestly, the rest of his form settling into the bed; a goading of his own, maybe, that her time was limited.
And Deimos wondered if this was supposed to be a struggle, because all he craved and yearned to do was reach and pull and provoke, to rankle his own fingers along her thighs or map his way across her skin; reach new paths and sojourns, cause her breath to hitch and come undone. To give and give and give until they were spent and then ready for more instances later; uncertain why accepting this current protocol seemed much more challenging than others he’d surmised and presided upon.
The essence of himself being spoiled was all the more confounding, and his eyes widened upon the reflection, before narrowing at her hooded gaze, a war over his own needs and her wants. “I cannot promise that will last,” the roughened gravel of his voice surmised honestly, the rest of his form settling into the bed; a goading of his own, maybe, that her time was limited.
the ressurected sword
