Blood is strumming through her veins as her heart pounds in her ribcage. She can feel the cold chill on her nape, contrasting with the dampness of sweat that trickles down her toned body. Her adrenaline surges and through the storm of estrogen, she bites her tongue to hold back from screaming.
“C’mon luv, don’t hold back on me now.”
She looks down, and a sudden wave of oxytocin washes over her just from staring at that reddened lips and sure-fire cocky grin of his.
“Oh, shut up, you bloody git,” she huffs, tangling her slender fingers on his tussled blond hair to push him back down. “Just keep going.”
She can feels his shoulder shaking with mirth of laughter, and she doesn’t have to see his face to see his smug smirk as he says, “Pleasure’s mine, Milady Bloodstone.” And though she hate that moniker, well, she have to admit it doesn’t sounds so bad in his Scouse tongue. It almost sounds like an endearment, even. Not that she’s better, because “Johnny Boy” had practically become her term of dalliance for him.
Then again, he gives her the kind of rush that makes decimating zombies in a crumbling battlefield pales in comparison. He made her feel alive, tempestuous and wolfish for more of this particular ecstasy.
She suppose, she could allow this casual affair evolves into amorous infatuation as they approach their rapture with fingers intertwined.
À la mort,
Prompt: Troye Sivan’s Wild.
“‘Cause when you look like that, I’ve never ever wanted to be so bad, oh. It drives me wild.”