his ardor descends, phantoms the wolf like december's declension, and he is arrested by the chill that cradles him when her gaze meets his. silence steels him, roots him to the ground as she makes quick work of closing the distance from across the room. she, a tether to his baseline mortality, an eventide of sacrilegious self-indulgence in the face of his duty, knows the effect she has on him when the porcelain of her hand mingles with his gloved fingers. it's empty save for the ghosts of their breaths that cloud in the capacity between them, electric and captivating in their isolation; it's rare for him to ever be alone with her, and this she undoubtably perceives as she takes advantage of the opportunity and pulls him into her.
ever the loyal dog, he meets her with no resistance.
she knows, she must know how much he loves her, and it makes her heady and erratic as the lines of her palms slip under the lapels of his coat. it tacks onto his lips when she bestows her inviolability upon him, dulcet and sickeningly sweet as it seeps into the spaces between his canines. she tastes so beautiful, effervescent in the dawning of his dreaming daybreak, very undeserved — but her wolf is naught but a predator to a feeding, and entitlements she does not consider among the trivialities of her possessions — so feed, she does.
❝ we shouldn't be doing this ... your majesty. ❞ he whispers against the edge that splits her face, delicate and dusted in the rose wine he savors; there's no urgency to the underline of his voice, no conviction. she may question if he means it, because levi's never cared about propriety before, and less so when it involved the eclipse of his longing. she's a wonderful lover, but cruel in her own machinations, stringing his fascinations and designs with the expert ease of a monarch who knows her place upon the arch of sensibility. such royalty shares its profundity in the divine, and in the pit of his stomach. he's powerless to withstand and she's coy in its consideration, that wicked curve tantalizingly close to his own. ❝ someone will see us. ❞ he tries again, less abiding. unspoken questions are spun in the cavern of his throat, tensions slipping as her wandering hands clasp behind his neck.
@frysse mwah.














