[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind She feels him freeze beneath her but takes it for surprise, no part of her expecting to have incited alarm. Her lips trace prayers and praise and ploys, butterfly kisses on his neck, his ears, hungry and savage, lingering allure. He bucks his hips and the girl laughs, delighted to have caused a wave of desire, to be the catalyst of his need. Fingers trace his neck, his sternum, dipping into the space of his throat, down and down in lazy circles, lingering upon each scar. She dips her head down as she does, mouth upon his clavicles as digits continue their exploration, raining like rivulets through his chest. Nails play rhythms on his ribs as she descends, her body coiling, her hips sliding down, and then her hands are on his navel, in the trail of hair below, and further, between them, taunting and teasing, ministrations to match the sly grin on her face. He rises up before she can do more, sliding his way further between her hips, the heat of her passing over his length before leaving it between them, a thing unsaid. Her left arm slips around his shoulders, steadying herself upon his lap; the right continues its fervent descent, until finally she is low enough, her fingers slipping around him, slinking slowly up his cock. And there she lets them linger, awaiting his reply, the instruction for more or request of stop, the thing he aches and yearns for, the knowledge of his desire. One word and she will be ignited, her lust inflamed anew. Onyx eyes as hazy as smoke stare into the blue, enticing, inviting, wanting permission, to be the only thing he thinks of, to make him buck and burn for her. Tell me, tell me, tell me- '-You-' - and Amalia blazes with a feral grin, incandescent and wondrous, reverent and amazed. She'd known - she'd known - but to hear it sears, sparks the embers in her soul into an inferno of heat. Scarcely do the words leave him than she is on his mouth, hungry, demanding, her tongue on his, her left hand tangling greedily in his hair as she rolls her hips against him, the invitation for him to take implicit in the act. Her breath is a growl on his mouth, a purr, a crescendo, a symphony of desire. The invitation is there: in her unsaid words, in her grasping thighs, in the way she pushes her body against him, her breasts and stomach flush on his form, skin on skin on skin on skin, passion and ardor and avarice and love. "What are you waiting for?" she hums against his neck, her hand still on him, another invitation, directing, pushing, leading, asking. "I want to be yours-" - and she rises up upon her knees, the final invitation, his last chance to recant, even as her fingers direct him inside her, even as her eyes lock onto his, waiting for him to rise and meet her, to seal their affection in the fires of lust. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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