she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
She doesn’t mind the immediate sting or the lingering ache that his mouth leaves. In fact, she finds that the oddity of it — of pain and pleasure mingling like two unforeseen lovers — thrills her perhaps more than any adventure might. She’s streaked with her own blood (trickling down her jaw to drip into the waves, smeared across her neck and along her cheek, soaking into the mahogany of her skin while the moon illuminates the sheen of the liquid) and yet Wishbone feels completely alive beneath the weight of this fact.
The kelpie spills truth from his mouth; the extent of his studies and his careful knowledge clinging to each word. At the same time, he is twining around her — trailing his mouth down the sensitive, heated curves of her body and causing pants of breathless delight to fall from her lungs. Wishbone cannot deny that the weight of the crown feels nice on her head, or that the stressful responsibilities that come along with it bring her both pride and a sense of purpose.
Yet her mind is swimming, unstructured beneath the pressure of his lips and teeth, and she doesn’t have much time to respond to his words. The heat of his mouth isn’t far from that dangerously-electrified piece of herself she has only just discovered and Wishbone rocks her weight backward in an effort to drive herself closer into him. Pressure is building within, thrilling and bloodied and heavy, and instinct tells her that Ivar will provide the release.
“It’s no wonder I was warned about you.” Her words are throaty and heavy, the telltale signs of arousal and desire swarming in their tune. “The other queens wanted to keep you to themselves, with” — she exhales a shaky groan as his teeth hit her thigh — “that mouth of yours.” Wishbone wonders if this is what it’s like to be Tephra’s volcano, burning forever until you finally explode with everything that has been simmering beneath the surface.
Beg.
Another strong thought, forced into her mind as strongly as if she’d been knocked down by a fierce Nerine wave, and she rolls with the motion. Her hips roll back, pressing against the strength of his chest. “Please” — it’s almost a whisper in her throat, husky and colored in shades much darker than the moonglow that surrounds them — “show me what kept bringing the others back for more.” Wishbone tosses her head in the air, blood shaking from her face and into the waves once more. Those droplets are lost among the tides, but Ivar has the capability to provide much more for the depths of the sea. Her tangled mane settles across her crimson-streaked crest as her head turns and there is heat, blazing and fierce, in the amber of her eyes.
“Don’t hold back now, Ivar.” A temptation slicing straight into the smoke of his lust.
wishbone
@[Ivar]