She was velveteen, sanguine and hypoxic.

The angle of his thrust made her back bow, every inch of her electric. Combustible, like dry grass at the height of summer. Holy oil with an eternal flame. He was scorching, all consuming — familiar enough with her by now to make her thighs slick before she had time to shed her dress. 

Her blood fizzled in her veins, near the skin, sparkly — popping candy on the tongue. She wasn’t allowed to move her hands, to touch him, taste him. These were the rules tonight, for now. He could, and would, change them as he pleased. It was her job to surrender, to bask in what he gave her and enjoy the drowning. Throw control away and trust.

Xylaes ebbed when she flowed, trying to change the angle of her hips subtly, trying to drive more friction where she wanted it, chasing that headlong plunge off a cliff’s edge that was so sweet and divine. It was no wonder poets sometimes hailed orgasm as a ‘little death’. 

“Fiorenze,” a warning, rumbled low and thick with lust. The light spilled in through the apartment window, gauzy and blue, kissing his forehead, nose, cheeks and lips the way she wanted to; her instinct to seize and devour, claim and consume. Long fingers curled, manicured nails biting sharply into her palms as she mewled, quickly coming apart along every seam. Wanting, so badly needing, what he would not allow her to have

The gleam in his eye was dark and terribly pleased, clearly content to keep her skillfully near dying.