ELITA: metamorphosis

2.

WATCH POST, EDGE OF CAMP SAFEGUARD, MORTALLANDS.

TEN SUN CYCLES LATER.

Lips clashed harshly with her own whilst eager hands frantically grabbed at the familiar curves of her body—her ass, her waist, the sides of her breasts—before hurrying back down to her hips where he bunched up her skirt in greedy fists.

Elita moaned into his mouth as she was pressed further into the side of the watch post wall. Her underwear was pulled down, fingers slipping between her thighs; searching, teasing, and then sinking inside.

Her breath hitched. He grinned against her, teeth nipping at her bottom lip as he worked her open. In. Pausing to let her feel the stretch. Out. In again. Building a steady rhythm.

"Enufh," she mumbled against him, words muffled by his mouth. She pulled out a vial from her skirt pocket and shoved it into his spare hand before she turned herself around, noisily detaching their lips. His fingers left her. She nudged her ass out, hands and upper body pressed against the wooden wall. "Come on. Come on," she demanded breathlessly.

Torin huffed out a breath of amusement. He lifted the front of his tunic before shoving his breeches down his legs, and then he was lathering his member with the liquid she'd provided him. Once he was covered in it, he bent his knees and lined himself up with her.

"Short ass," he teased her height.

"Shut up—" her words trailed off into a blissful moan as he pushed inside. "Be quick. The switchover is any minute now."

"What about you?" He knew she wouldn't be able to finish if they had to rush it.

"Make it up to me another time."

He pressed a kiss to her neck, a silent promise as his hands found purchase on her hips and he started to move.

Only a few thrusts in and she started to whimper too loudly. They'd had sex enough times for him to know she wasn't a vocal lover. She just liked it when he covered her mouth with his hand. Or lips. Unfortunately, he couldn't reach her with the latter, so fulfilled her wish with his palm instead. He was rewarded with her tightening around him and grunted his approval into her shoulder.

Torin didn't bother holding back, knowing their replacements would be showing up any moment now. He thrust into her frantically, taking care to hit that spot inside of her. His breathing turned harsh. Torin mouthed at the fabric covering her skin, and then he could feel it—so close now. All it took was a few more thrusts before he was met with pure bliss. His movements turned lazy without rhythm in an attempt to draw out the pleasure until it got too much and he pulled out.

Torin's black hair stuck up at different angles from where she'd grabbed at it. He retrieved a rag from the pocket of his brown breeches and wiped himself clean. Once El had turned herself back around, he handed it to her.

"Thanks." She wiped the mess from between her legs and tossed the fabric back at him, watching him pocket it, before pulling her underwear back up.

There was chatter in the distance.

"Looks like we finished just in time," Torin said with a lazy half-smile, his cheeks pink.

"Yeah."

El headed outside of the open door on jelly legs, where a walkway circled the top half of the watchtower. She leaned against the rail, spotting two familiar faces coming straight for them. They were walking just left of the muddy trail, the path splitting the surrounding forest.

She waved at her best friend Atti, who travelled with a man known as Garb. Garb was the oldest out of the four of them, around forty with long brown hair which had started to grey—the strands tied back into a bun on the top of his head. He was a big fella, naturally bulky with a tribal tattoo covering half of his face. His neck vanished under the fabric of his stone-coloured tunic. The breeches he wore were black.