10-15-2017, 10:33 PM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
Looking west, the stallion eyes the thick canopy of clouds. The rain pouring around them is only the beginning, he knows. There is a cool nip to the air, a warning that summer’s hold is not so permanent. Even in Loess, the rain will fall for hours; they will be drenched wherever they go. Planning has readily cleared his mind of the lusting haze, and he listens with a half-cocked ear as Isobell speaks. He is not looking in her direction, and he nods at her agreement, his attention elsewhere. Ivar shakes away the rain that is dripping into his eyes, and it is only the loaded pause in Isobell’s words that make him hesitate. What had she just said? He turns back toward her slowly, his brown eyes narrowed. Wantoness he can handle – he has just proven it to himself – but this is something different. The scaled stallion has always been content in his role of incubus; it is instinctual as both kelpie and stallion. He is the beguiler, the enchanter, the seducer. That is his role, and yet there is a glint in Isobell’s silverstorm eyes that he knows only from his own internal reflection. “Or would you like to hurry to Loess?” she “There are a great many things I would like, Isobell.” The piebald mutters, his scaled chest pressing against the mare’s left shoulder, driving her toward the sheltering pines without warning. There’s a tree farther out from the rest of the copse, and he traps her between the solid trunk and his own body, hearing the patter of the rain and her heartbeat as a single sound. Ivar had rebuffed the moniker of gentleman that she’d given him moments earlier, but he is ever so gentle as he slides his scaled muzzle up the right side of her neck. She tastes of rain and saltwater, of things forbidden and all the more desirable for it. He tells himself that she is safe even as he fights the urge to (take her, take what she is offering.) His touch remains chaste by explicit definition only, intimate contact without a kiss. Her earlier groan emerges from memory (hadn’t he surely put it from his mind?), accompanied by the breathless way she had said his name. Without logical reason, he wants to hear them again – without help. The only thing her presses into her with his touch is the freedom to act on of her own will. He had made her want him before, made her ignore the alarm that prey feels when faced with danger. That is where he excels; that is how he hunts. This time he does makes no attempt to quiet the alarm. Ivar is not certain who is being tested this time, but then…he is no longer sure of anything. Isobell is safe, but this Isobell is not who he had thought. This is not Castile’s bright-eyed little sister, this is a grown mare with lust in her eyes that he knows must match his own expression. It’s been barely a heartbeat since he had finished speaking with her name, and he is leaning heavily with his upper chest against her withers, a paltry imitation of the way he wants to bear down on her. “And you’re a clever girl,” he continues, his voice a whisper against her ear before he trails his lips down the mottled slope of her neck to where he had gripped her before. He lingers there, the soft indents of his canines still visible and his breath hot against the surely still-tender skin, “so I am sure you know what one of the those things is.” |