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
His words bring realization with them like a chill to the pit of her stomach.
“Watch out for a stallion named Ivar. He’s handsome, but he has the potential to murder you simply for being an heiress of Nerine.” Scorch’s words ring loudly in her mind, laced with caution and the husk of warning. Wishbone had pushed such thoughts from her mind — she often finds herself teasing and prodding danger with her bare fingers, waiting for it to lash back — but they resurface now, pulled from the depths by the sound of his sea-soaked voice.
“Ivar.” Her voice is husky and not entirely childlike now, but rather tinted with flavors of moonlight dust and underwater shadows. The barest hint of a smirk finds her sable mouth; this night is proving to be very interesting, indeed. Scorch might have had good intentions with her warnings, but Wishbone has never been one to shy away from a “Danger!” sign and this night will be proof of that. “Someone warned me about you.”
There’s a laugh in the back of her throat, threatening to break the quiet of the midnight. His eyes are on her, alluring and tempting, and the echoing siren song of his species sings to the warrior beat within her. Wishbone does laugh, then, and it’s a low sound that contains remnants of the angry waves pressing against the strength of the granite cliffs. The moonlight is encouraging her (or perhaps it is the continual beat of his lusty song, one that ties its handcuffs around her slender, freckled wrists and tugs her closer) and so she is stepping nearer.
It doesn’t take long (or much effort, on his part) for her mouth to touch his scaled throat. Scents of brine and drowsiness linger on the shadow of his throat as she huffs a warm, soft breath against him. She’s burning all of the sudden, most notably in places she hadn’t truly been aware of before… At least not like this. But it’s a fiery feeling, reminding her of the heat of Tephra, and it brings an electrifying chill against her spine. It’s an itch she can’t quite scratch alone, an adventure she’s more than willing to go on, and a daring jump off a long, long cliff all rolled into one.
Wishbone’s lungs exhale lusty smoke across his neck as she drags her mouth along his crest, pushing aside salt-saturated locks in favor of the muscle beneath. “And does your reputation precede you, oh-so dangerous Ivar?”
wishbone
@[Ivar]