You crackle like it. It's humming underneath your skin.
[ He's caught her by surprise, he's aware of that much, but she doesn't shy away from him either, doesn't make efforts to deny him access. Instead, her head lolls, baring more of that vulnerability to him, and it's all he can do not to bury his face in her throat with a possessive snarl, sink his fangs into that rapidly pulsing vein to make her arch against him. It's been some time, he thinks, since he's hunted, set a trap for the feeding, but even that feels like the wrong thing to call whatever this is between them — her ability to hypnotize him by merely existing, and his willingness to satisfy her by whatever means he's capable of.
His open hand settles on her hip, sliding over the soft fabric of her dress, before fingers curve inward, establishing a firmer hold — not to control her, or direct her, but to indulge in the pleasure of touching her, of feeling how slight she is beneath the cupping of his palm.
He bends low over her again, the strands of his hair brushing against the juncture between her neck and shoulder — and when he kisses her skin again, he does bury himself more definitively, tonguing over the flutter of her pulse, nipping with the blunt edges of teeth rather than pointed fangs just yet. ]
no subject
[ He's caught her by surprise, he's aware of that much, but she doesn't shy away from him either, doesn't make efforts to deny him access. Instead, her head lolls, baring more of that vulnerability to him, and it's all he can do not to bury his face in her throat with a possessive snarl, sink his fangs into that rapidly pulsing vein to make her arch against him. It's been some time, he thinks, since he's hunted, set a trap for the feeding, but even that feels like the wrong thing to call whatever this is between them — her ability to hypnotize him by merely existing, and his willingness to satisfy her by whatever means he's capable of.
His open hand settles on her hip, sliding over the soft fabric of her dress, before fingers curve inward, establishing a firmer hold — not to control her, or direct her, but to indulge in the pleasure of touching her, of feeling how slight she is beneath the cupping of his palm.
He bends low over her again, the strands of his hair brushing against the juncture between her neck and shoulder — and when he kisses her skin again, he does bury himself more definitively, tonguing over the flutter of her pulse, nipping with the blunt edges of teeth rather than pointed fangs just yet. ]
Do you taste this sweet all over, ma foudre?