10-16-2017, 07:02 AM
 i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
She shivers beneath his touch. It is fascinating, and so he grips her again, holding her crest without pressure just to see what she will do next. It is pull away, which is startling disappointing, but Ivar does not draw back. His mouth remains just above her skin, canines raking furrows in her rain-wet hair. The storm is washing away the salt on her skin and he can taste her all the more clearly. She smells of lilac and leather, like the wings of her father she had not inherited. When she turns back to him, the scaled stallion meets her gaze without expression, even when she suggests they make their way to Loess. At that he raises his brows – this close he can all but taste her readiness – but does not give a verbal reply. He shrugs, as if to imply hat he is not at all disappointed, and releases the pressure against her hips. The need to win, even if victory is meaningless, does not subside even when he no longer holds her still. Determined, he presses a single hot kiss to the dip of her hip, then another to the soft skin of her thigh. Her tail would brush here, he knows, pushed aside in an offering that he should not take. Should not does nothing to quell the lust, pause the crisping of the autumn leaves, or dilute the scent of her readiness. Ivar does though, and with a stifled sigh, he steps back, bringing his brown gaze up to Isobell’s with the soft start of a smile. Not now, not today. Someday, though. It is a promise he makes to himself as he steps away from the virginal princess. Someday she will give herself to him and he will give something back in return. Perhaps it is best if she finds a sweet boy first, someone who Ivar can enjoy ripping to pieces before he shows Isobell what she has been missing. He thinks of Loess again, of the rolling hills and the navy-haired Heda who waits there. He is suddenly – strikingly – grateful for the way that things have transpired. He considers himself innocent of wrongdoing, but the image of the queen’s pretty face twisted in jealousy of the princess stirs a different sort of desire in Ivar’s chest. She had been so possessive in Karaugh’s presence; he imagines bringing Isobell to Loess might strike a similar cord. She’ll need him to reassure her of his affection, to kiss away her uncertainty, and at the moment Ivar is rather grateful that if he cannot have this princess, at least he can have a queen. The picture –the anticipation – returns the cheerfulness to the piebald stallion’s expression, and with not-entirely-playful tug at the start of the silky strands of Isobell’s tail, he turns toward Loess. “Race you?” He asks with a tilt of his head, sidestepping through the still-falling rain. He doesn’t wait for an answer, though, and instead darts ahead, glancing over his shoulder to see if she is following. |