[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind Impatient, avaricious, longing and hungry, she bucks and aches and pulls and wants, consuming, desiring more and more. And again he stops her, slows her, torturous and tumultuous, forces them to slow and savor, his movements methodical, his touch sublime. She moans against him again and again, each new sensation another symphony, emboldened and ignited by his every caress. Claws pull rivulets upon his skin, threatening new scars but never quite breaking, never hurting, only needing him to see, to feel, to know the torment he is putting her through, and that she is enjoying every second. Lips on his neck, she bites and sucks, tasting salt on her ruby tongue, the sting of his sweat an aphrodisiac, fueling and fanning her lust. But it is nothing next to the sound of her name, exhaled and growled on his tongue. She shudders at the sound of it, compelled into movement, her body a wanton and undulating thing. No longer shy, she grasps at his hips, pulling herself closer to him, feeling the length of him against her and making her desires apparent in turn. Her thighs tighten on his waist, toes digging into the blanket, the sand, curling and clasping as her body tenses, drawn taut and arching as a bow. And then she falls, descending to the blanket, her body still arcing up to meet him, her legs still tangled around his waist. She only disengages as he removes her breeches, slow and sinful, playful and perverse, taunting her with winsome wiles and eliciting a new array of frustrated whimpers and needy mewls. Then, at last, they are both the same: undressed, exposed, their desire obvious in figure and voice, waves and waves crashing down. Rising over her like a monolith, he is adamant, Adonis, Goliath in her heart. She takes his hand within her own and holds it, squeezing all her need and desire into the simple gesture, trying to communicate the urgency she feels as his mouth begins to trace her body, down and down and down. If she thought she had felt pleasure before she is in for an awakening: there is nothing in her repertoire to compare to his caresses, no experience equivalent to feeling him on her skin. Even Frey cannot equate, that moment having been transactional, pay for knowledge in pleasure but not love. This, this is something deeper, every fumbling mistake smoothed over by emotion, every moment of awkwardness a brilliant laugh. Love and love and love: she feels it, sings it as she arcs beneath him, her body conforming to his touches, rising and falling under his ministration, an instrument to be played. And as he descends between her thighs she sighs and simpers, her hand in his hair, grasping and encouraging as her eyes fall closed, a shiver coursing through her at the promise of new discoveries, letting him lead her into vibrant delight. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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