Haunted Wood for the rotting (mtr.)

Her breath stuttered as she felt the whisper of his own retaliation  (of sorts)  hiss along her shoulder and she hissed too; amber eyes veering back beneath her lashes as she almost let herself be lain by him; slain in the most sinful ways. But as he coaxed her to lie abed upon the moss she only seethed more, a tutting hiss of her own.

And as he veered to her shoulder, Nesrine twisted further, let her teeth catch on the cusp of an ear; not to pierce the flesh therein, but rather, to gnaw and lave at the cartilage. Something to amuse her, to entertain her while the redcloak administered whatever he saw fit upon her own person. She hoped her trills wound right through his ear and further coax his frenzied mind.

All the while the roseate finally allowed herself to give some way to him; limbs aquiver with the effort, pushed into a heavy sit that took the breath from her. He could press her into the moss, then — on her back, her belly, if he so wished — and ensnare her to where they both needed another most.

But for now, her lips and teeth left his ear in favor for nibbling along the length of matted neck; writhing torturous and slow into him.