[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind He slithers and snakes his way up her body, and for once the girl is content to be patient, still riding the shockwaves of her release. Each touch elicits another shiver; she hums contentedly instead of mewling, low and smoky and nearly a purr. Like water Amalia shifts beneath him, fluidly rolling beneath his motions, her body conforming to his hands. She raises her right knee to better accommodate, her legs shifting brazenly over his form. Black on blue, and their eyes never break, her lazy smirk an echo, flushed face concession of happy defeat. "Hmm," she murmurs again, happily, a fluttering gasp leaving her lips as his mouth lingers once again over her breasts. The hand on his chin has shifted back to his hair, gesturing fondly across his ear, his cheek. Her left arm remains rooted on the ground, propping her up to more gradual inclines, the better to see his languid approach. And then at last he is above her, and she can feel him despite the distance, is painfully and powerfully aware of the heat that pulses between their groins, his musculature against her skin. His mischief is met with a decadent smiles, eyes drifting appreciatively down his figure before rising up, clinging onto his face. A long index finger traces his jawline, dancing gently over his chin, across his coral lips. "I don't know," she grins up at him, hand drifting back over his ear, lazily tracing the lines of his neck. "I'm feeling pretty... spent." She yawns her emphasis, lungs filling in tandem, her breasts just barely brushing upon his chest. Then she falls back, palm descending to his shoulder, her head tilted sideways as though in thought. "In fact, I'd hasten to say that, well..." And then, with the swiftness of one who has yet to surrender Amalia pushes against his shoulder, swinging her hip and pressuring him to roll onto his back. Her goal is to get him supine beneath her, trapped and enthralled beneath her hips. She sets herself upon his waist, hovering above the length of him, a purposeful teasing in the act. "It's your turn." And thus the cycle of their game continues: giving and taking, grasping and yearning, fervent and passionate, a measured exchange. Hands at either side of his head, she lets her face dip down to meet him, her nose ghosting next to his cheek, a growl escaping from her throat. "What do you want, Deimos?" she asks, demands, lips a whisper on his ear. Her teeth pull eagerly at his earlobe, enticing an answer to her query, longing for instruction on how she can please. It is Amalia's turn to triumph, to rule: he has given her absolution, and she wants nothing more than to do the same, to reduce him to rubble with her eager caresses, melt glaciers and mountains into molten pools. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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