[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind Gods, but it feels good to have him inside her, as though something has been missing she did not know she lost, as though he is filling not only her body but her soul, the anxious loneliness replaced by reckless abandon, forgotten and distracted and left far behind. There is not room for doubt here: there is only him and her and the sway of their bodies, the dance like the ebbing and flowing of tides, an age old duet of nature and love. He is fire beneath her, pools of molten glass, the glaciers gone and replaced by heat, by lust, by need. She needs him, wants him, and she tells him so with her lips, her tongue, her hands, her hips, her breasts, every beat of her thundering heart. Teeth trace over the shell of his ear, whispered incoherence exhaled within, wordless promises and entreaties and mewls. Then he begins to travel down her chest, his mouth on her breasts. Appreciation is shown in many ways: the tightening of her grip upon his hair, the quickening of her rhythm on his cock, the gasps and moans and growled pleasure which courses from her lips. The tightness in her stomach is coiling up again, pressure rising in her groin, causing her to tighten around him, to clench him tighter in her grasp. Glassy-eyed, she tries to meet his gaze, to find the blue below her flush, to communicate her urgent, rising need. "Deimos, I-" (-they are a reservoir, an ocean, and she is about to overflow, to break the floodgates and release, to given in to his ministrations once again, to take and take until she can take no more-) She pushes her mouth back onto his, hungry, boiling, gasps and incoherent pleasure exhaled against him as she crashes down, her body at last unable to keep itself, her crescendo a glorious series of notes. Her body trembles, vibrates against him, coiling tight as a compressed spring before breaking, releasing, enveloping him. Greedy she tries to pull him close, to feel his skin against her as her orgasm swells, to drown him along with her until neither of them can breathe. And when at last the quake subsides, she is left with nothing but everything, because he is there, his shoulder beneath her sweat-soaked cheek, her face buried in his curly hair, her arms around him possessively as she continues to tremble with the aftershocks, putty in his hands. "Love you," she murmurs against his neck, the low alto hum of it vibrating happily on his skin. And then, because her brain is too clouded with pleasure to think of anything else: "Mine." the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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