Bessa

Starvation Of Plenty 1/2

Weakness bends even the most rigid of resolves.

His voice is rough, but his work is smooth.

A craftsman.

There's a strange pleasure in watching him make something out of nothing. The way his back is covered in a sheen of sweat. Flexing muscles shift underneath the skin that holds nothing but ink. The timber moans out when the nail sinks into the wood. Sap still scents the air, the Savage has cut down several trees earlier in the day for next winter he said.

"Are you ready to go, Bessa?" He stops his work to look up. His hair is damp - pants slung low on his hips reveal that concave line of his lower torso.

A hunger rises.

I squeeze my thighs.

"Yes," carrying the dish that I made for the training. I notice his thumbnail is purple-blue, he must have smashed it with the hammer, several times.

There is a stumble to his breath. I hear the stutter of sound.

"You wear pants well." His eyes aren't focused on the linen of my pants but on my chest that is covered with a shirt.

Exposed and bare armed, he seems to hone in on the vulnerable flesh.

A deep breath from him.

His sight coils around my wrist, slowly progressing to my forearm, licking the flesh upwards with heat that melts into me.

Prominent hunger is seen in his eyes, the starvation to them is, profound.

He pulls the beat of his heart closer. Mine speeds up.

A rush...

"You don't need to come with me." Sound quivers up my throat to shiver out.

"I want to come. I like watching you train." Slow, deliberate steps bring the beat of his heart even closer.

"We've been invited to Orva's house for the ending meal of the day." There is a wobble that holds within each word because he's so close now.

Too close.

Taking a step backward, he moves forward.

"Have we?" He says, slowly. Fingers run along my bicep.

"What are you doing?" Clenching my thighs more, but the unaccustomed fabric only intensifies the feeling against my sex.

"Touching you." A lowered voice whispers itself against my throat, just behind my ear. Where hair meets skin.

Momentarily, all that can be heard is our shallow intake of air, lungs refusing to expand all the way.

The pad of his thumb now presses against the war of my pulse at the side of my neck.

He holds me confidently, boldly by the throat. My feet come off the ground, a hand cups my ass.

Dilating pupils eat the green irises away.

Cheek to cheek.

Hips to hips, he's so hard. My spine sends those heated waves that pulses with warmth directly below my mound.

Inhaling, exhaling, only to hold the next breath with a quivering effort.

Time comes to a halt, all that matters is him, touching me.

His face pulls away, the loss of skin contact is mourned.

He simply looks at me.

The pace of his heart sounds like a war drum before the beat pulls away to go inside the house.