Stone Circle no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

his musk fans across her face and ugly instinct flares. every inch of the titan threatens to smother her control. like a splinter lodged too deep to ignore.
and she must move now, for every moment spent without gnashing teeth only urges her to pull him closer until there is nothing but sweat and feverish release between them.
it sickens her. so, the woman does not warn.
her shoulder slams into his chest like a battering ram, teeth snapping inches from his throat.
there is nothing false or tender about this. tyr dons her skin—woman made god of wrath and ruin. and her snarl is no mere sound. it is torn straight from the gut and rattles through her ribs like the drumbeat of death.
"then fight, norseman." she rasps, hoarse with heat and hunger clawing at her throat 'til it is raw, "i told you before: words mean little."
she shoves him again, daring him to answer, eyes wild with something torn between desire and slaughter-want, "—i've seen your men, your lands. now show me how you conquer."