Fairspell Meadow she picked wild flowers

There was no doubt that she would be able to feel every rise and plunge of his heart as he pressed himself to her back. He did not care that she writhed beneath him, or that her body was oozing the scent of fear into the air. The vile creature was so full on her trembling, withering nightmare that he had lost most of his rationality and was thrusting against her with a rapid and unabashed swinging of his hips. He did not care if he met his mark. Ithrik only cared about the violent means in which he was able to relieve himself of the itch that had settled underneath his pelvic flesh. Every eager push of his body against her own was another that brought him closer, and so he beat against her at a reckless pace. His rotten teeth were still latched to her nape in an attempt to hold her close to his body.

When at last he had finished his deed, the devil collapsed onto her back and heaved breath through his lungs with a raspy sound. His eyes flickered over her for a long moment before he pulled away from her frame and released a quiet chuckle. “You taste lovely,” he rasped, flashing his fangs to the woman in a sickening snicker that pulled on the edges of his leathery lips. The stranger's blood was still washed inside of his mouth and he could taste it with every swallow. Before long, he would want for more and would attempt to climb on top of her again.