Fairspell Meadow saffron's curse [m]

Blue petals against fresh snow. Lasher had a unique way with words. They flowed off his tongue in the manner of a gentle river rolling over round boulders. Smooth, graceful, they were as appeasing to his ear as his companion's touch was to his body, and he hummed appreciably at the poetic compliment.

He wanted to hold the other man's eyes with his own again, but Luke could not bring himself to shift from the caress on his throat. His eyes closed and he listened to his heart beat in his ear as more want, more need was coaxed out with each sensual stroke of Lasher's tongue and tantalizing nip of teeth. He pressed his own mouth to the side of his companion's neck with more fervor as he too was bathed in the heat of desire.

Lasher spoke again. "Mm.. What?" Luke answered, his voice soft with a hint of shakiness as he lifted his head and met Lasher's gaze, his silver eyes gently searching. The wry tone was not lost on him, but his curiosity spoke of his inexperience.