“The candle wax is going to sting a little, but it will make such a pretty sight on your skin.”
YOU ARE A POET as well as an engineer and you can appreciate the prose of scarlet candle wax dripping against gently tanned and freckled skin. You can understand the laws of the universe which make heat and flame ignite to to change the candles constitution, know vaguely why ad how this approximation of a mortal body responds to sharp and sudden heat against its skin. BUT MOSTLY you are a god of love, a god of men fumbling over each other in desperation and longing, a god of pushing boys against walls in the backs of clubs and bruising them until they cry for all the right reasons. So more than any of those things you understand the adrenaline rush in your veins and the lust hanging off the man sitting on your hips ( you are pinned, wrists tied to the headboard, but it doesn’t bother you ) and the way the small taper candle and lighter held in his hand make you both a little bit more excited than one would mention in polite society.
YOU DON’T KNOW EACH OTHER. Not really. You know each others types, at least; a young man with daddy issues and a violent streak, and someone just as crass and rough edged willing to tame him for the night. Perhaps it wouldn’t appear as if you were doing much taming, but as much can be eased by giving as taking. Your hips shift ( your hard and you’re sure he can feel ) as you grin up at him, a challenge, a nonverbal form of consent, before you arch your back, further baring your naked torso to him.
“ NO NEED to warn me, pretty boy, I know what I’m getting myself into. You gonna burn me or not ? ”
