DEIMOS
Deimos thawed under her touch, always had, always would, no ice, no glacial chill, no isolated cold; fire and embers and unfurling flames, curling and contorting at the depth of her sway. His throat beckoned and his frame twisted, a conflagration already heading straight for the edge, intended infernos heightening at her influence, at her persuasion, at her insistence. The beast had no preference in their arts and oeuvres, in the contorted masterpieces and ambient expressions of their ardor; teasing and taunting insinuations, daring, challenging invoking clamors not standing on precipices or sands; would’ve taken anything and everything she offered. He could bear a slow, bestial torture, a sauntering, simmering ache, boundless and unraveling, wanton, wanton, wanton in her hands. He could carve a brutal onslaught, a siren song, a wild, savage occurrence, where feral ambitions and aspirations tangled with their upheavals, with their sedition, with the invigoration of scintillating desires. As long as it was her, he had no partiality; taking and granting and absconding with the ministrations she savored or the tantalizing, enticing, inveigling lust surrounding, pervading, and pulsing through their devotions.But not by himself.
As much as he appreciated, encouraged, and writhed in her rapture, a devout reverie, a maelstrom, a tempest, a concoction he’d always willingly devour, he rose from his position, his hands reaching for her – not to stop, not to cease, but so they could burn together. A strong grasp and calloused palms intended to lift her, another sheath replacing whatever one had been lost in the interim, to slowly allow her to descend over him, engulf him, surround him again. It was one more sinuous, serpentine proposition, his caress, his touch, his strokes, flickering down along her waist as he leaned back along the bed, covers, and blankets, hooded gaze emblazoned and avaricious again, infernal splendor spread between them. A delicious, decadent invitation, incensed temptation, breathless again as hips bucked once more, intending to establish a rhythm, a semblance, along brinks and crashes and unleashed tides as she soared above him. Her name was still a grating song on the guttural groans, on the torturous eaves, on the impeccable, inevitable lunge; biting hunger and smoldering intentions to bring them both to release, again and again and again.
You aren't afraid of throwing yourself
in the path of danger
but you're terrified of letting anyone in
