she unfurls. her curves were a song. rising like violence before the maw of a resting dragon. before him, her posture eases into serene placidity. moving into her snakes, like darkwater moving into soft earth. when she moves, her sensuous serpents, unfurls with her; lithe, inked in their bold, cerulean filigree. coiling, violently, about her hips in a cascade of wild and writhing scales. they crawl upon her with each caress. twisting, in their graceful endeavour. moving with her as she moves with them, in turn. sunlight roams across her physique like reaching fingertips. dappling, the blood hue of her scarlet curves in a flood of orange fire. lifting the wild ivory of her fur, in a tangled web of drifting light and rippling reflections.
how she flashes before the daylight; every red of her drips of carmine warmth. she flashes hotly before the honeyed heat of the sun. she is a bright red moon, against the backdrop of sunlight. brighter than the smooth darkness of his swarthy, bay frame - the deep, rich chocolate skin of him - that, too, caught the sensual rays of morning light; absorbing their gold with every inhale, and exhale of breath. she watches him, closely. close enough to count the sigh of his lungs.
she wants to remember the gentleness in her life, yet there is no such tenderness to remember by. her life had been of violence. of bloodlust. of war. love has never served her. though she is a creature of fire and passion, relationships fulfilled upon the basis of pure love, were meaningless to a woman of predatory nature. perhaps, deep down the wolf in her yearned to find her mate (just as we all crave that inner calling from the soul); some creature, as feral and untamed as she, to love and make hers; yet, it is of a different breed of hunger. she has never found that sense of yearning in an individual, and is thus content to carry on in her solitary ways. she prefers to hunt, alone. untethered by raw emotions.
her gaze flicks upon him, fixing the softness of his gaze with the fire-blood of hers. her breath spills out in a warm wave. curling mist-like against her sleek, porcelain fangs.
Starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters
A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night
May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright
