Qeya River [m] ghosts

fire.

it was hot, menacing. lancing over him, a sword to his chest, threatening to burn and etch it's cry into the surface of his very heart. as calloused and black as it was, it beat red for her; a healthy, thrumming, vibrating pulse that did not cease to thrum.

the strum of a songcord.

she does not turn him away. her words fuel to the fire of his affections and desires.

his touch is left behind with heat, lingering and scorching through her raven hide. he unearths the ruff of fur sitting on her shoulders with his scarred nose, seeking out her skin beneath, where he inhales her scent. greedy in his touches. slowly, surely, pressing himself close to her. their sides taut with an electric pull that pulls tighter like a string.

she is irresistible; and he is so often a man of control. always. each decision made with a measured mind rather than instinct—but it is nothing but instinct which he behaves now. he turns, neck over shoulder, bringing his nose up to her cheek and ear, where his breath fans. a heavy swallow that is almost pained as he says: i would take you right now if you wanted, his voice is grainy, raucous with wanton need for her, so perhaps we should head back.

control is waning.