Moonspear blood [m]oon rising

Her inquiries teased a snort from him—keep her waiting? She grossly underestimated who had done the waiting and even now, the teasing remarks and toss and turn of her body washed thought from him. But that statement lingered and he thought, why not keep her waiting? Wordlessly he halved the minute distance between them once again, needing no direction nor aid to keep himself ensnared by her wiles. She prattled on and he thought nothing of it; she could talk and talk, dragging out the time to waiting little by little. He too could play that game.

It was however, a game that harmed him as much as it did humor him.

”Me? Keep you waiting?” he added in the silence that fell as she spoke of the future he did not think much of yet. ”I thought your sight was better than that to know how I've pined for you.” A gust of warm air was sent her way as he then quartered distance. How tempting it was now, to reach for her in a way he thought not possible. At least not without the possibility she would still yet send him sailing down the mountainside to meet a certain, resolute end. Jury was still out on whether or not that was a demise he would meet, least of all at her hand.

He persisted then, wondering if the thinning distance between their bodies would coax her on elsewhere. A tentative reach here; the brush of fangs to her neck. He'd know soon enough whether or not she'd permit him any further, and knew only how far to push the line he toed. ”Why just the one life? Why not them all? Perhaps we've chased one another far longer than we realize,” and even the saccharine laden words felt too sweet from his mouth.