#scriptastra

He has you up against the cold stone wall of a battered old barn, hiding you partially from the downpour. The silver light in the sky makes the raindrops look like tears of the moon, as they rush down the overhanging roof and leave shimmering trails through the black wool of his coat, like visible shivers down his back.

"I am yours..." he says, voice low as if the words have rumbled in his chest for far too long, full of desire and dark reverence. "The way the tide aches for the pull of the moon."

His breath is warm along your cheekbone and his moustache keeps tickling your skin. The brim of his hat nudges your brow as he moves his head, perhaps for a reaction. 

You can't see it, but his eyes search for yours through the dark. An eager flicker that contradicts his immovable calm.

You stretch your neck, away from him slightly, which only beckons him to lean in closer with another poetic proclamation.

"How the moon stains the skin of the sea, with nothing but longing... and silver."

His voice is lowered into a deep whisper as he strokes your neck with the outside of his leather clad hand, and you swallow hard, making the rain trickle down your throat.

You imagine - no, crave - the feel of his fingers through your hair, over your lips, around your neck. His mouth should be tasting your skin. His tongue should be licking rain off your collarbone; slurping, sucking, humming into the hollow of your neck until your legs shake.

You breathe his name and James moves in like a shadow, impossibly close, with a deep, pleased noise that suggests you've said all you need to say, and that he’s intent on making you scream it.

"I am yours..." he repeats, and your chest heaves high at the feel of his gloved thumb on your pulse point, so very gentle compared to the demand that follows: