Duskfire Glacier [m] Oomemē

Skorpa is pleased with her, murmuring in northern, the tone of it alone encouraging her to absorb all of him. She likes her body like this, muscles and nerves braying like this. She likes the tautness of his flank against her spine, and his bones, shuddering firm-smoothness. She likes the slow-stroking kisses, and the new thrill of being under him. She likes Skorpa’s body; what it does.
She finds excitement where it isn’t supposed to be— behind wretched teeth, flowering on a northman’s lips.
Lust vacant of love is a confusion. This part of her belongs only to her husband, and still Ayovi hungers for the new pleasure he’d shown her, squandering love’s sanctity for a second taste of bitter mouth.
“Again,” she breathes, though it is almost a moan, head tilting over shoulder, rubbing the side of her cheek into his face. Her hind legs buck and her front ones stretch, at once reawakened. “Again, Skorpa,” she pleads, this time with low laughter, naive yet to the interval which sated men. She nibbles back along his snout, taking the lower lip between pinching teeth.
Desperate to feel the sensation of him again.