Arria wrenched her lips from his and turned her head to the side, but this did not stop his tasting of her. He only trailed the seeking warmth of his mouth in a line of kisses and gentle bites down the length of her neck.
When he grazed his tongue through the soft hollow above her collarbone, above the fabric of her tunic, her fingers clenched into the thick fur of his overcoat. It was then she realized her hands were pressed against his chest, but she was not pushing him away. She could best a dragon with unflinching façade, but put her in this Nord’s arms and she was as weak and trembling as a fawn cornered by sabrecat. It was difficult to fight the heady combination of his pleasure-bringing lips and the rising tide of her own formidable desire.
Arousal was clear in her voice, and she could not mask it. “Stop this madness. You promised talk of Skyrim.”
Gods, that mouth, hot and scorching and licking now, up her neck, sending other licks of flame to coil between her thighs as he found the sensitive skin of her ear.
“I prefer this manner of conversation.”
He flicked his tongue inside, and she gasped, surprised to hear the harshness of her breathing and the embarrassing squeak of her own voice. “This is not talking.”
His deep, throaty chuckle sent a rush of warmth against her too sensitive ear. “It is one manner of talking. The response of your body sings of your desire for my touch like it was made for just such a thing.”
His hand found its way under the lower hem of her tunic. He traced his thumb above her hip, in light taunting circles that had her rubbing her sex against the thick muscled thigh that braced her against the door, trying to find relief from the itching agony of want.
She did not think it possible that she be roused any higher, but then his voice lowered, a husky growl thrumming through her body like the soul of a dov. “As my body does also respond to your touch, should you wish to test your power over me.”
His hand left her hip to grab her wrist, as he traced her palm down, over his belly, and lower, until she could feel the thick shaft that strained to be free from constraining fabric. He squeezed her hand around him.
“Is that not what you want, dragon? Dominion? Take it.”
The burning heat of his gaze trapped her, devoured her, pinned her back with invisible force. She wanted so much to hate him, and she could swear that she did, but her body refused to accept this. How could he know her weakness so well, to find such wicked ways to entice her body and her soul?
Her hand tightened around his cock, of her own accord, as she rubbed her palm over the ridge of his shaft. He groaned, a guttural response, trembling beneath her touch as his forehead lowered to rest against hers, his lips a whisper touch away from her own.
“I have knelt before you once, think you I would not do it again?”
The memory of his tongue at the core of her sent another jolt of heat down her spine. Her body was alive for him, and the intensity of her desire mixed with a rush of shame, that she should preen so for his touch.
It was too much, too hot and sweet and wrong and right and it hurt. She was being pulled apart, he was pulling her apart, and she feared he would leave her with nothing of herself if she let him. She gritted her teeth and pulled her hand away.
“I remember being bound to wooden post as you knelt, king,” she snarled.
He stiffened but did not move away, still caged her against the door, still his face so near to hers. “I do not remember you complaining of it.”
She did not know whether to laugh or cry, to strike at him or close the small distance between their mouths and bite at him not with words. But words she chose. “I did not have choice! Do you yet force me now, is that not your way?”
His eyes widened, and then narrowed. All traces of warmth and softening she had seen in his features were gone, and she found herself wondering if she had simply imagined them.
“No, I will not be forcing you.”
He did back away from her then, but she kept her weight supported by the door, suddenly feeling bereft and drained, her body screaming in protest at the loss of heated mate, and the cold air that followed in the wake of his leaving was as if a physical blow.
Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 11b/?
When he grazed his tongue through the soft hollow above her collarbone, above the fabric of her tunic, her fingers clenched into the thick fur of his overcoat. It was then she realized her hands were pressed against his chest, but she was not pushing him away. She could best a dragon with unflinching façade, but put her in this Nord’s arms and she was as weak and trembling as a fawn cornered by sabrecat. It was difficult to fight the heady combination of his pleasure-bringing lips and the rising tide of her own formidable desire.
Arousal was clear in her voice, and she could not mask it. “Stop this madness. You promised talk of Skyrim.”
Gods, that mouth, hot and scorching and licking now, up her neck, sending other licks of flame to coil between her thighs as he found the sensitive skin of her ear.
“I prefer this manner of conversation.”
He flicked his tongue inside, and she gasped, surprised to hear the harshness of her breathing and the embarrassing squeak of her own voice. “This is not talking.”
His deep, throaty chuckle sent a rush of warmth against her too sensitive ear. “It is one manner of talking. The response of your body sings of your desire for my touch like it was made for just such a thing.”
His hand found its way under the lower hem of her tunic. He traced his thumb above her hip, in light taunting circles that had her rubbing her sex against the thick muscled thigh that braced her against the door, trying to find relief from the itching agony of want.
She did not think it possible that she be roused any higher, but then his voice lowered, a husky growl thrumming through her body like the soul of a dov. “As my body does also respond to your touch, should you wish to test your power over me.”
His hand left her hip to grab her wrist, as he traced her palm down, over his belly, and lower, until she could feel the thick shaft that strained to be free from constraining fabric. He squeezed her hand around him.
“Is that not what you want, dragon? Dominion? Take it.”
The burning heat of his gaze trapped her, devoured her, pinned her back with invisible force. She wanted so much to hate him, and she could swear that she did, but her body refused to accept this. How could he know her weakness so well, to find such wicked ways to entice her body and her soul?
Her hand tightened around his cock, of her own accord, as she rubbed her palm over the ridge of his shaft. He groaned, a guttural response, trembling beneath her touch as his forehead lowered to rest against hers, his lips a whisper touch away from her own.
“I have knelt before you once, think you I would not do it again?”
The memory of his tongue at the core of her sent another jolt of heat down her spine. Her body was alive for him, and the intensity of her desire mixed with a rush of shame, that she should preen so for his touch.
It was too much, too hot and sweet and wrong and right and it hurt. She was being pulled apart, he was pulling her apart, and she feared he would leave her with nothing of herself if she let him. She gritted her teeth and pulled her hand away.
“I remember being bound to wooden post as you knelt, king,” she snarled.
He stiffened but did not move away, still caged her against the door, still his face so near to hers. “I do not remember you complaining of it.”
She did not know whether to laugh or cry, to strike at him or close the small distance between their mouths and bite at him not with words. But words she chose. “I did not have choice! Do you yet force me now, is that not your way?”
His eyes widened, and then narrowed. All traces of warmth and softening she had seen in his features were gone, and she found herself wondering if she had simply imagined them.
“No, I will not be forcing you.”
He did back away from her then, but she kept her weight supported by the door, suddenly feeling bereft and drained, her body screaming in protest at the loss of heated mate, and the cold air that followed in the wake of his leaving was as if a physical blow.