𖤝. HE MIGHT BE A TOMB, FOR THE WAY HE ENVELOPS HER. The dragon prince’s tent lies hushed in the dying light of eve, canvas walls drained to shadow, torches guttering low against the velvet dark. Beyond, the revelry of the tourney wanes, a distant pagan clamour that feels impossibly far away. Within, the table of chalices bears witness as he presses his paramour down upon it. The press of their bodies is a play-war, and her taunting laugh rings as she pushes back, rattling it. It sends a chalice tumbling; wine splashes and spills, the vessel falling with a resounding clash, all but announcing their tryst. His grip hardens then, fingers biting into her jaw as he secures her against him. ❛ Behave, lest my guards begin wagering on which ill-mannered whore I've taken to bed. ❜ He speaks the words in provocation as he tilts her chin upward for a stolen kiss. In turn, fire blooms in her palm, heat pressing between them as she unravels the edges of his embroidered restraint.
With flames dancing in her grip, @highfyre walks him backward. The firelight gilds the sharp planes of his face, caught in the curl of his silver hair. To the fire, he must acquiesce, and so in part yielding to her will. Each step between them is as battleground lost. He allows it, for sport. The backs of his legs strike the carved foot of the bed, and he takes to lounging upon it. His shirt hangs open at the throat, breeches half unlaced, debauchery abound. ━━━ ⟢ ❛ Don’t you dare speak to me like that. ❜
❛ Have I wounded your sensibilities, Lynora? ❜ The fire flares brighter for the jest. ❛ I thought you prided yourself on lacking them. ❜ His gaze drops to the flames, then returns to her pretty face, amused. ❛ Allow me to amend my approach, my lady. ❜ The prince eases back against the spill of crimson velvet, thighs widening to carve space for her betwixt. He guides her over him until she settles astride his lap. Her arm comes upon his. Flame licks at his hand where hers rests against his, searing through skin; by dawn, he will curse the stiffness in his fingers, mayhap struggle to close them round a lance, but he does not release her. ❛ Shall I take you to my father’s halls? Present you properly? We could trade pleasantries, pretend you are not twice widowed, and I am but your sweet suitor. ❜
The sting delights him. A silken laugh breathes from his throat as his mouth drifts downward, barely brushing the line of her throat. In tandem, his hand slips beneath the fall of her skirts, touch tightening around the curve of her thigh. ❛ You may play the blushing maid while I kiss your hand. ❜ She shifts her leg, and the dagger she hath bound against her thigh catches his forearm. He draws a sharp breath, a sudden ache spilling along his flesh as blood darkens his sleeve.
Undeterred for it, Aerion grasps the back of her dress one-handed, fingers tangling in the laces, and he pulls, tearing through fabric with a rending sound. He should have preferred chains for her rebellion, but the ribbons would do well to bind her wrists all the same. Maw nestles at her throat, and his voice slips in a rumble, ❛ Too bad I intend to have you on the floor, before the fire, like a dragon. ❜
