It hits her low, that roughness. Would have made her breath shudder without words like those, but with them—
Sometimes it is warm, when she wants him, and she is coy, or sweet, or playful. Sometimes it feels vast, and deep, and bigger than her body and she has to be careful how she looks at him lest it be too much. And then sometimes it is like this: a flashfire through the dry brush of her, the sudden heat of it sucking the air from her lungs.
In the time before they were lovers again she would grit her teeth and tense herself around it, trying to starve it until it burnt itself out and left her to repair the char. Now that she is allowed to touch him, her speed is such that her wings streak the air when she flies, hands darting from their places to turn and hold his face. It is not elegant, when she surges to kiss him— her nose is pushed too close against his, her fingers grip rather than caress. Both kiss and the sound she makes before she smothers it against him are things of raw passion. The kind of feeling that would make her wonder how much of herself she truly owns, if she could wonder anything at all. ]
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It hits her low, that roughness. Would have made her breath shudder without words like those, but with them—
Sometimes it is warm, when she wants him, and she is coy, or sweet, or playful. Sometimes it feels vast, and deep, and bigger than her body and she has to be careful how she looks at him lest it be too much. And then sometimes it is like this: a flashfire through the dry brush of her, the sudden heat of it sucking the air from her lungs.
In the time before they were lovers again she would grit her teeth and tense herself around it, trying to starve it until it burnt itself out and left her to repair the char. Now that she is allowed to touch him, her speed is such that her wings streak the air when she flies, hands darting from their places to turn and hold his face. It is not elegant, when she surges to kiss him— her nose is pushed too close against his, her fingers grip rather than caress. Both kiss and the sound she makes before she smothers it against him are things of raw passion. The kind of feeling that would make her wonder how much of herself she truly owns, if she could wonder anything at all. ]