#revisited

A sense of doom filled Tempest.

She kicked the covers off, trying to steady her breath, and walked along the rows of arched openings to catch the cool night breeze.

The frisson rose along her arms. She held out her hands—throbbing in pain—watching as electricity danced, volatile and unpredictable, between her fingers.

Where is Halsin?!

She couldn’t stop shaking. Her spiraling mind kept edging toward places she refused to go. Frustration rose thick in her throat; she tried to swallow it down, but panic only sharpened into anger.

That was when she heard it.

The sound of something settling.

Tempest whipped around, loose curls flying.

It was the Master of the Eldertree.

Halsin stood there with a large silver tray, a carafe of wine, and an assortment of sliced fruits and meats arranged on their plates. He kept his steady, watchful gaze on her as he set it down on a side table, then straightened to his full height—hands at his sides, expression focused.

Unlike her.

“You weren’t here!” Her voice crackled like the oncoming storm, amplified by her frayed temper. Not quite asleep, not quite awake.

Halsin did not respond immediately. He studied her first—her tense posture, her glowing tattoos—before tangling with her eyes. He did not move.

“No,” Halsin replied at last, nodding toward the tray.

Tempest scoffed, crossing her arms over her ample breasts—her nipples stiff from emotional arousal—as she paced along the rounded bed.

Halsin, in his ancient wisdom, missing nothing, began to move toward her with careful precision.

“You are not yourself.”

Tempest whipped around, her tempestuous magic crackling around her, disturbing the very air.

“No shit?!”

But Halsin did not deter easily. He continued.

“It is high time for you to stop running.”

Tempest suddenly felt small and petulant. She stamped her foot; the impact was far too light to be taken seriously.

“I am not running!”

First the hag, and now I have to take this crap from you too…

“I will not invite such taint to bed. You and I have much to discuss.”

Halsin’s voice was stern, but even as he spoke, she saw him respond to that same darkness in her, drawn to it. His eyes dilated, darkened, and began to glow as he circled her.

“I don’t want to talk,” Tempest growled.

She marched up to him, craning her neck, glowering, then ripped the sheet from his hips—springing his cock free. 

Tempest licked her lips at the sight before hauling him in, standing on her toes to nip and lick his throat. Hoped to rile him. When the giant wood elf remained stoic, she changed tactics—scratching a blazing path down his chest, creating red, angry welts.

Halsin groaned, clapping a hand around her neck in warning—once again reminding her that he was still in charge. She only smirked up at him with a sultry hum, theatrically licking her lips as if she had drawn blood.

He tracked the motion of the tip of her tongue before answering, darkly:

“I won’t be gentle…”

To which Tempest answered with a current of electro-stimulation to the heavy sack below.

He bucked, blue light arched between their bodies, leaving his tip beading.

Halsin growled—part shock, part pleasure—before picking her up. Tempest locked her legs around his waist, her hands gripping his powerful shoulders as she bore down on his aligned heat.