Lament of the Traitor King (Complete)

Chapter 7 - Double-Edged (Major Edits Made)

Hands trembling from cold and barely repressed need, Netta reached up and spanned the concave of his stomach, running up to caress the shape of his abdomen.  He felt like he was burning under her skin, and she had to remain aware of the fact that in spite of how it felt to touch him, he would not harm her from the supposed heat he exuded.

And, eagerly, she pushed beyond that barrier of fear and pain, ran her hands, possessively, over his skin.

Her skin.

He rewarded her with a heavy moan, arching his neck in rapture. In the near dark, she could see the cords of his throat as they stood out, flexed, the watched his Adam's apple as it bulged outwards.

She touched where it pleased her, hands traveling up, running past the brown circles of his aureoles, touching the gentle dusting of his chest's hair. Her mouth fell open, her hands traveled, spreading apart, fingers extended like the feathers on a bird's pair of wings.

She spanned his shoulders, having to reach up, straining to touch him.  Unable to quite get her hands to reach up to the curve of his shoulders, Netta felt as he leaned down, pressing against her. 

Her hands took the mass of his shoulders into her hands, gripped them.

He thrust his hips, the movement causing the mass of his hardened, awakened penis to rub against her thighs, then her pelvis.   Netta looked between their bodies, as if in a hazy trance, saw the shadowed outline of it that pressed against her.

The cold on her back, surrounding her where his skin was not pressed against hers bit, ached to be warmed by his consuming heat. She wanted his burn, for it to purify the yawning cold.

His smell - the quiet moments in a forest following a great fire - enveloped her as surely as his heat did. Looking up into the face of her beloved, Netta took in the vague sight of features that she had memorized. 

Forever, here, the almost delicate, furred lines of his mustache, and the soft spot of hair on his chin - the gentle sloping of his heavy, arched brows.

Her hands moved up to take hold of that face, holding the sharp angles of his face, framing them in the cradle of her hands.  Softly, Netta said, "Oh, but you are perfect."

Ash's eyes flared then - fire reacting to the blast from a powerful bellows.

His own hands reaching down, taking hold of the cold weight of Netta's breasts in his hands, thumbs grazing over the peaks of nipples.   "Say it again - wait, no."  He paused, then said, "I would know nothing of perfection, you should understand more than anyone." His voice was a gentle, growling rumble. "Foul creature that I am." He paused, then ducked his head and slid down her body.

Without missing a moment, he began to trace the outlying shape of her right breast with his tongue. It was a remembered, long-practised trip that he took. He was slow, like a snail on its unhurried journey, rolling along the jutting, swollen curve, burning where it touched. He left flesh that wanted to be consumed wholly in the wake of his tongue.

Netta bit her lip, pushing back a moan that built in the back of her throat, reverberating down her spine.

Her right nipple ached for want of the heat of his mouth, so hard that it burned in the cold as heat scorched around it.

He was cruel, genuinely taking pleasure in prolonging hers until she felt she was dying from it.

Getting hold of her mind, she slid her hands down his chest, wanting some modicum of control. Netta tried to not let the way that her body reacted to him run her thoughts amok. Nevertheless, she found her determination faltering in the focus of his.