"Living room?"
"Closer."
We stumble through the cottage, kissing and touching and shedding layers. My coat falls to the floor. His coat follows. By the time we reach the living room, my hands are under his shirt, exploring the cool planes of his chest, the ridges of old scars.
He groans when I rake my nails lightly across his skin. "Iris, fuck."
"I want to touch you. I want to feel you." I tug at his shirt. "Can I?"
"Yes. God, yes."
He pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and I have to stop and just look at him. He's beautiful, so much lean muscle and pale skin and old scars that tell stories of survival.
"Your turn," he says, voice rough with want.
My fingers tremble as I unbutton my blouse. He watches every movement, his eyes dark and hungry. When I shrug the fabric off my shoulders, leaving me in just my underwear and s slip, his breathing stutters.
"You're beautiful," he breathes.
"So are you," I whisper as I strip off the rest of my clothing.
He pulls me flush against him, skin to skin, and the sensation is overwhelming. His coolness against my warmth. The solid strength of him. The way he holds me like I'm precious.
We sink onto the couch together, a tangle of limbs and kisses. He lies back and I straddle him, just like that first time we kissed. But this is different. More. Only his trousers still between us.
I rock against him experimentally and we both gasp.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Iris."
"Good?"
"So good. Too good." His hands grip my hips, guiding me into another roll of my hips against his. "Do that again."
I do, and the friction is perfect. I can feel how hard he is beneath me, can feel my own body responding with wet heat. Through the bond, sensation doubles over. I feel my own pleasure and echo of his, building and feeding off each other.
"This is... " I can't finish the sentence, too caught up in the feeling of him beneath me, his hands on my hips, his mouth on my throat.
"I know." He nips at my pulse point, then soothes it with his tongue. "I can feel you. Feel what you're feeling. It's incredible."
His hands slide up from my hips, over my ribs, until his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts like he’s afraid to touch me fully. I arch into the touch, wanting more.
"Can I?" he asks.
"Please."
For a moment he just looks at me, drinking me in. Then his hands cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they peak.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "You're so beautiful."
Then he leans up and takes one nipple into his mouth.
The sensation shoots straight through me. I cry out, my hips jerking against his, and through the bond I feel his satisfaction, his pleasure at making me feel good.
He lavishes attention on first one breast, then the other, using his mouth and hands until I'm writhing on top of him, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more everything.
"Cadeon, you’re torturing me."
"I know." His hand slides down between us, pressing against me through my skirts. "I’m ruthless, remember. Here?"
