Hushed Willows as spring opens (touching, skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

✹☾❂

 

Eleuthera found, surprisingly, that her words were evading her. This rarely happened, if ever, and it made Eleuthera even more speechless than before. She felt the man rush to fill the infinitesimal spaces she created between them; tested him slightly with her open-ended words and exploitable inactions. She felt the warmth of his touch and the warmth of the thoughts that drove them, and the warmth of the soul that lay just behind those. Eleuthera easily trusted it —  she had no reason not to — and she just as easily yielded to the rogue cowboy.

Words could not seem to match the pampering and the kisses she was receiving, and the sheer bliss that wrapped her brain in velvet — and while Eleuthera was at a loss for words, Kincaid seemed to have found his. He bade her to stay and spark, but Leu had begun to burn and she could do more than nod feverishly and silently croon to him, calling him back to her embrace which she offered heartily and readily. She was entirely wrapped around his roan finger.

“Oh—“ she murmured as his jaws found a place on his withers, playfully, affectionately, and then he backed away, his gravitational forces pulling her around and towards him once more, following him as if a puppy, almost beating her at her own game. Her gaze matched his own; drunken, blissful, simple, and unthinking. At the talk of making her a meal, she slurred “I don’t think I could sate you…“ and, perhaps surprisingly, Eleuthera meant nothing sexual by this. Instead, her meaning was this: who was she, this tiny thing wishing to be pleased, compared to the open road, which was nothing but pleasure?