The Mouse and The Monarch

27

"Take the hood off," this time her voice was soft.

A caress in the darkness.

In the blackened void, she sensed rather than saw the man's compliance.

A rustle of fabric reached her ears as his hands moved upward, and the hood was lifted away from his face.

Ophelia felt the subtle disturbance of air as he lowered the hood, the fabric brushing against her arm.

As the hood fell into his hands, a heavy silence settled over the space.

Without allowing herself to hesitate, Ophelia extended her hand, her fingertips trembling with anticipation as they reached out to him.

As her hand drew closer, she felt a surge of electricity dance along her skin.

Her touch was hesitant at first, tentative as her fingers brushed against his scarred skin.

But as she felt the rough texture beneath her fingertips, something within her shifted, a sense of purpose guiding her movements.

With a newfound resolve, she allowed her fingers to trace over his strong, scarred hands, memorizing every contour and ridge.

As Ophelia's fingertips trailed from his hands over his arms, she felt the rough texture of his scars, each mark telling a story she didn't know.

Her breath hitched as she traced the lines of his scars, her touch igniting a fire within her that threatened to consume her whole.

She felt the tension in his muscles as her fingers danced along his skin, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he let her.

With every stroke of her fingertips, she felt him unravelling beneath her touch, his defences crumbling.

Her fingers gently trailed from his upper arm down to his palm so softly she felt his skin break out in little bumps.

She felt the heat between them intensify, a primal need driving them both to the brink of madness.

As she felt his breath hitch against her skin, she knew that she was teetering on the edge of something dangerous and intoxicating.

"This is a bad idea," he said quietly from above her but she could hear the strain in his voice as her hands gently moved upwards.

"Probably," she said as she let her hands explore in the dark.

Without his hood, she could hear him better, and it was strange to think about the man underneath it.

But she needed him.

Driven by an unbridled force, she reached out, her fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt.

With a swift and decisive action, she pulled him closer, feeling the heat emanating from his tall, muscled frame.

His body yielded to her command, descending towards her as if caught in a gravitational pull.

Without a moment's hesitation, she closed the remaining distance between them.

Their lips collided in a fervent collision of longing and intensity that sent shockwaves through her and pooled desire at her core.

The taste of alcohol lingered on her lips, merging with the taste of him, sandalwood, leather and sweet honey.

Ophelia, fuelled by the heady mix of alcohol and longing, explored the contours of his plump and soft lips with a raw intensity.

Her tongue traced a bold path across his bottom lip, an assertive invitation that shattered any remaining barriers between them.

A low, guttural groan, almost a whine, escaped from his chest, a primal response to her as she gripped his shirt and pulled him closer.