There is something about the way she watches him that feels as physical as a hand along his neck. August wants to arch into it like a cat. He has always liked having eyes on him, or being touched - it reminds him that he is real. Only lately has it begun to bother him that he’s lost track of all of the names.
Ordinarily he would be as lazy as the smoke that curls up above the streets. He might play demure, he might ask more questions. Ordinarily it was a game.
But there is that fire in his belly, burning since the island. There is that buzz in his head, a peculiar kind of white noise, a snatch of melody from a bird that shouldn’t exist. There is this woman, with her lioness’s eyes and her long braided hair and the gold that winks at him in the cool dark. August can’t say why her gaze makes him feel chosen, a shepherd picked to be king. Maybe it doesn’t matter; he’s happy to worship.
It’s hard to keep his mouth from her when she talks low into his ear. A shiver uncurls along his neck like a new fern; he wants to return the gesture with his teeth. She is hot and sleek from dancing and now nothing could make him look away from her. That wicked, bold smile snares him, so satisfied he feels already bare; he lowers his lashes at her toast.
And drinks.
The heat flares out from his belly, trails down his throat. It is nothing to the warmth where their shoulders meet, their sides. Before he can look up again her lips are on his; they taste the same way, smoke and embers.
It isn’t enough. Now he is only more ravenous, eager to forget everything but her taste. As she pulls away he decides he no longer wants to dance, to be around the others; he almost suggests they skip to that ending. But her eyes, as she begins to shiver and her chains whisper light over her skin, convince him not to. He is willing to burn a little longer for the way she looks at him.
Roughly he sets the glass down, his gaze not straying from hers. He walks a half-circle around her, watching her move, the cool of the night one one side and the heat of the stranger on the other. August glances his lips across her hip, her shoulder, and up to her ear. He lets his teeth ghost a touch along its soft curve. “Why don’t you lead,” he murmurs, “for now.” What he doesn’t say is that he doesn’t even want to think. For the rest of the night he only wants to feel.
Ordinarily he would be as lazy as the smoke that curls up above the streets. He might play demure, he might ask more questions. Ordinarily it was a game.
But there is that fire in his belly, burning since the island. There is that buzz in his head, a peculiar kind of white noise, a snatch of melody from a bird that shouldn’t exist. There is this woman, with her lioness’s eyes and her long braided hair and the gold that winks at him in the cool dark. August can’t say why her gaze makes him feel chosen, a shepherd picked to be king. Maybe it doesn’t matter; he’s happy to worship.
It’s hard to keep his mouth from her when she talks low into his ear. A shiver uncurls along his neck like a new fern; he wants to return the gesture with his teeth. She is hot and sleek from dancing and now nothing could make him look away from her. That wicked, bold smile snares him, so satisfied he feels already bare; he lowers his lashes at her toast.
And drinks.
The heat flares out from his belly, trails down his throat. It is nothing to the warmth where their shoulders meet, their sides. Before he can look up again her lips are on his; they taste the same way, smoke and embers.
It isn’t enough. Now he is only more ravenous, eager to forget everything but her taste. As she pulls away he decides he no longer wants to dance, to be around the others; he almost suggests they skip to that ending. But her eyes, as she begins to shiver and her chains whisper light over her skin, convince him not to. He is willing to burn a little longer for the way she looks at him.
Roughly he sets the glass down, his gaze not straying from hers. He walks a half-circle around her, watching her move, the cool of the night one one side and the heat of the stranger on the other. August glances his lips across her hip, her shoulder, and up to her ear. He lets his teeth ghost a touch along its soft curve. “Why don’t you lead,” he murmurs, “for now.” What he doesn’t say is that he doesn’t even want to think. For the rest of the night he only wants to feel.
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
