( he feels her need like a livewire in his chest that says do not be soft with me. a frequent insistence he's used to from her — the need to feel, more than the need to feel good. love and war are not the opposites people think they are, because loving something will always be synonyms with the lengths you go to protect it. roughness is not the lack of love — it's the surplus of it, the feral need somewhere deep in his chest to take, and take, and take.
that's what he feels from her. a need to be claimed. her desires, his command.
their mouths come back together, molten metal forging them into some immovable, heavy thing. his winnowing is limited here, but fifty feet is enough to get them through the unoccupied room next door, where he finds a new wall to pin feyre against, not hesitating this time in shucking her sweater up and over her head. a part of him is sad. he doesn't want feyre to be angry with him, obviously — but he really doesn't want feyre to hate alina, for what rhys has done. but, like her, he also doesn't want to think about it just yet. he wants to get lost in his wife, his wife, and put action to every word he's spoken. )
You're so —
( he bites it out, tossing her sweater somewhere and latching onto her chest with biting kisses, teeth drawing out the salt from her skin. his hands slide under her thighs, cupping her ass to drag her in a rough grind forward, pushing his arousal against her soft, warm parts. )
— beautiful. ( a finishing hiss. inhaling her deep scent, of mountains and oranges and pine — velaris, here on his tongue. ) I could fuck you and never stop.
no subject
that's what he feels from her. a need to be claimed. her desires, his command.
their mouths come back together, molten metal forging them into some immovable, heavy thing. his winnowing is limited here, but fifty feet is enough to get them through the unoccupied room next door, where he finds a new wall to pin feyre against, not hesitating this time in shucking her sweater up and over her head. a part of him is sad. he doesn't want feyre to be angry with him, obviously — but he really doesn't want feyre to hate alina, for what rhys has done. but, like her, he also doesn't want to think about it just yet. he wants to get lost in his wife, his wife, and put action to every word he's spoken. )
You're so —
( he bites it out, tossing her sweater somewhere and latching onto her chest with biting kisses, teeth drawing out the salt from her skin. his hands slide under her thighs, cupping her ass to drag her in a rough grind forward, pushing his arousal against her soft, warm parts. )
— beautiful. ( a finishing hiss. inhaling her deep scent, of mountains and oranges and pine — velaris, here on his tongue. ) I could fuck you and never stop.