Life's a Golden Platter, Baby

Idal has been taken with ladies before. It did not take much to snag the lecherous prince’s attention; even homely she-wolves could win his time with the right wiggle of their hips. Blame his parents for that shamelessly horny attitude, what with their constantly bugging him and Ingmar to take mates and produce heirs. If the old badgers were serious about their concerns for future grandchildren, then they should have been over the moon to realize their sons were busy practicing the art of pup-making in their dens . . . and in the meadows . . . and all over the kingdom, wherever either prince could find a good spot to use their women. Idal did so love pretty faces. And pretty tails. And pretty lips telling him nice things, or making steamy noises while he played with a pretty body. The pull he felt toward young Ziva, the temptation to touch her like gravity tugging on a moon, was familiar to the strawberry blonde knight. He wanted her the way any spoiled brat would want something they were used to having all the time: gimme, gimme. She was cute, and available. And so willing, too . . . not drawing away from him or flinching, but instead burying her vulpine face unabashedly against his chest, mussing the mottled map of golden and rosy hairs. His heart leapt - galloped - in response to her easy closeness, her earnest acceptance of his caress . . . and if Ziva noticed the wild drumbeat of his pulse, Idal didn’t care. Let her listen to the hammering in his chest, and grow braver. Bolder. Let the little comet think this gave her power over the older, experienced male, so that Idal could see what she would do with that power while she held it in her teeth.

His nearly chaste kiss had the girl tensing ever-so-slightly, the fiery hairs on her nape prickling like the plumage of a startled bird. The oceanic glow of her irises seemed to darken - not in luminescence, but in hue, dipping from the clarity of a morning sky to the depths of a lake. This change, if it happened at all, danced through her pools so swiftly Idal feared he might have imagined it. Childish curiosity made his eyes narrow, intrigued . . . yet he noticed no such blue shadow pass over her windows after leaning away from the playful bite he pinched upon her ear. Disappointing. The darling lass’s body remained an instrument Idal would need to practice on . . . to work out his tuning, until a single well-placed strum invoked whatever reaction he desired. Now, the gasp she uttered when she felt his teeth on her flesh? That - THAT was delicious!

The Tempest could have shrugged off his paw at any time. Idal would have let her, although his brazen touch would have lazily grazed her side as it dropped back down to the earth. Instead, Ziva stretched upward, her crown gently meeting his jaw. Idal felt amazed by how easily she fit against him . . . the femme was a tiny creature, slender as a fox, but she did not meld against him simply by virtue of being adorably small. She made herself a perfect puzzle piece. Her posture reached daringly upward, a serpent climbing a branch, and Idal acutely sensed the lithe extension of her muscles through the short glossiness of her coat. She pushed at the corner of his mandible, bumping lightly at the bone and Idal obediently tilted his chin up. They were chest to chest. Throat to throat. Idal’s forearm wrapped almost completely around her body, having slid down toward her hips as the cheeky creature slithered to her goal. And when the cold shock of her nose met the vulnerable softness at the apex of his trachea, so help him, Idal hissed in a breath. Then cold was quickly chased away by warmth - the wet warmth of Ziva’s tongue tracing its way from his jugular to his cheekbone and the corner of his mouth, tasting him, treating him to the same teasing gesture he’d just taunted her with. Meeting him play by play. Oh, but she was a worthy opponent.

A laugh tattered with too much air fluttered from Idal’s mouth. Portals of pale blue glass shifted to meet the drowning glory of brilliant azure. No second-guessing from Ziva . . . no fear of reproach, or self-consciousness of her actions. She blazed at him in challenge, her robes of russet mingling with his palette of strawberry wine, and at last Idal realized that perhaps he was in some danger from letting this comet’s flames brush too close. When Idal remembered that he could speak, his voice purred from his chest, husky and hot and primal, devoid of the weightless banter he’d baited her with before. “Miss Ziva, I think I’ll enjoy watching how happily you throw your morals away.”

No more words. Not when he had her this close, this open, this ready to throw herself into the ring. His tongue dove between the velvet curtains of her lips, lapping at her teeth, begging her to open her mouth. His own maw had parted slightly, breath panting and desperate, as he tilted his head to better explore whatever treat Ziva offered him. Claws raked into her fur where he held her. His shoulders rotated forward, as if the two wolves could possibly erase any more distance between themselves. Idal would not force Ziva to reciprocate, if she backed out now. He would not grasp her in his forelimbs and jam his tongue down her throat if she squealed and yanked herself away. But neither would he relent if she showed no signs of fear, hungrily kissing her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, back to her delectable mouth because he had to - he needed to - determine if the lovely Tempest were truly as willing to throw caution into the river as she implied.

Better Eat it UP

Avian Prince | Abandoned his throne | Heartless | xathira