Pride, Wolf and Rebellion

Oblation

Fen'Asha groaned. She was awake but had no interest in it. The moon was still blushing in the heavens, striking the outlines of her room.

She had reached for him, finally embraced him and been pulled out of his arms too quickly, with too much urgency. She tugged at her memories, needing to savour the scent, needing to savour the warmth. She found his arms, the softness of the wolf pelt on her cheek. She pulled at her blankets.

It was much too hot.

She squirmed, trying to allow the night air to cascade through her mess of sheets. The blankets sailed up and settled down, another embrace.

She summoned his caress, his hand. Her hand. How she wished to hold him always, wished to feel his fingers snaking around hers always.

She touched her prayer stone, recalled once more how he held it too. Her eyes drifted shut and the humidity of that place, the sweltering closeness of that place, fanned into her mind like vapour over the water.

She shivered at the thought of being back there again, longed to be back there again despite having just left, longed to do more than want.

"Why do you hesitate?" Fen'Harel had asked.

Why did she hesitate? Even in her cloistered thoughts, she wavered.

What stopped her wonderment? She had questions, after all. Questions that burned every night.

What was he...like? How did he taste? What were his kiss like? What was the texture? Was he more wolf than man? Was he man at all?

What would he do if...she asked him to touch her?

She touched the stone again, skimmed from the stone to the flesh of her breasts to the ascending admiration nearby. If she asked him to touch her there, on the rigid outliers...

Or if she asked him to touch her there with his mouth?

She quivered. What would his tongue feel like? Was he more wolf than man? Did it matter? Hot breath, panting, flickering tongue pressed behind stinging teeth, smoky fur clinging to powerful form.

Her hands traced the path of her curiosity, down from between her breasts to damp expanses beneath.

She parted her legs. An offering. What if she placed herself on the altar?

She shuddered at the thought, shook her mind of the irreverence. The sure transgression, indecency. The heat clinging to her, her damp garment barely holding on.

She moaned. She couldn't help it.

What if he pressed himself against her? Was he more wolf than man?

She longed for it, for him. Longed to explore his expanse, longed to swell her hands across his soft sheath. She felt herself, waiting and panting with him.

And then the preparation before the effort of taking her, of entering her. The red eyes in the dusk, the simmering and seizing teeth gritted in the work of thrusting and urging and arriving.

How she moaned. Magic swelling at the ends of her fingertips, filling the void with vibrant warmth.

His lips, they would search her. They would taste her, too. It was her dream. But she was his offering and she would take all he had to give, every dimension of his body in hers. Of his mind in hers. Of his life in hers.

She arched her back, felt herself gave way to flood as she called for him under the moon's forceful gaze.