Moonspear ᵐᵗᵐᵖʰ dornröschen (mtr.)

She had never taken a male in this manner;
had only ever heard of it when she had been a blind and beguiling little whelp; only ever having canted her head, dovelike, at the beauties that had laughed themselves into silence; shushed for speaking with such suggestions around the heiress apparent.

Andraste still does not know much;
she does not know what this would feel like for either of them— but! She knows, fleetingly, that the ache in her loins and between them does not matter; knows is if she lost herself in those amethyst facets any longer, she would lose whatever gall she had voyaged down the dark make of him with. She knows that he stole the breath from her; quivering low from the lungs and into that hip. Yet she knows, entirely, how she wishes to make him feel. 

All else that would be needed was the notes of Mahler that she must she must she must hear; to vex the insatiability within him to a maddening height.

Inexperienced; hesitance, at first;
and then her dulcet groan gnawed from flank and into the first of his heavy thigh. It was here that Andraste laved deeply, nipped ponderously; fangs a soft scythe, shearing through the heather from thigh, to knee; behind it; churring with longing at the anchored loin she found there;
and when this first act came to its end, intermission presented itself in the mouthing at cullions with a trembling resilience;
and the third act was repetition, repetition, surely; more ravenous, shivering; more a glimpse behind the curtain that she might be unable to restrain herself, so early.

However! she must, she must, for him;
here, then, she returned to them; ignored them, all in favor of finally, finally mouthing with shorn lips so featherlight upon the crown of him.  “And what—”  an imprecise, half-innocent kiss  “—do you call this?”

Then, without waiting for an answer to her saccharine enquiry, Andraste promptly devoured him, all as he deserved.