NERON
the hailstorm
The fingers in his hair tugged his head back enough for him to glance up at Morgan with eyes like molten blue steel, though his hands and mouth were still very busy. Still, from this position she reminded him of some avenging angel; a valkyrie maybe, strong and capable, beautiful in her prowess, and he hummed appreciatively at the sight.
Morgan wasn’t done though (not yet, evidently), and his tongue pressed hard against her with each crest of her hips, a pressure echoed by his hands squeezing against her curves. She spoke - a quick, breathless warning - and Neron felt it as the release surged through her, held in place by thighs and fingers until she was well and truly finished.
Left on his knees in the melting snow with fluid still sluggishly leaking from the lacerations on his chest (shame it couldn’t be from other places - alas), Neron tilted his head up and into the touch of her hand. ”You’re welcome,” he purred. A former duke, it was only polite to help her dress, and as he stood he held out the cloak for her to adjust back around herself. ”I suppose we should be on our way, then?”
Morgan wasn’t done though (not yet, evidently), and his tongue pressed hard against her with each crest of her hips, a pressure echoed by his hands squeezing against her curves. She spoke - a quick, breathless warning - and Neron felt it as the release surged through her, held in place by thighs and fingers until she was well and truly finished.
Left on his knees in the melting snow with fluid still sluggishly leaking from the lacerations on his chest (shame it couldn’t be from other places - alas), Neron tilted his head up and into the touch of her hand. ”You’re welcome,” he purred. A former duke, it was only polite to help her dress, and as he stood he held out the cloak for her to adjust back around herself. ”I suppose we should be on our way, then?”
