Sun Mote Copse but you're holding me like water in your hands

Wren revelled in it. The roughness of his touch that lit her skin ablaze, his throaty growls that would bounce off of the treetops. The power she had at her hands, how willing he was to bow at her feet and give himself to her. Slowly, until it was all at once. 
And she would do the same for him, worship his name and cry it out for no one but them to hear. It was criminal, the way she feverishly begged for him, on and on until her throat grew hoarse and her cheeks had flushed a pleasant, indicative scarlet. She could only hope God would cover his eyes. 

**

She was shivering, the heat having drained from her body, now delivered to her via her lover's gaunt figure pressed against her own. Perhaps in another life, she would have lit a cigarette for them to pass back and forth, but all she could do was exhale with a content, shaky sigh. 
The afterglow could only last for so long. She shuffles away after a moment, keeping close proximity, though her eyes avoided his. She needed to think.