Once upon a time, Dara remembers it all so well, she’d been courting her treasure through her purely innocent guise; taking advantage of a man who had yet to come into his own. She had been selfish and possessive as any woman would have been when finding a male such as Tyr. He had never coddled her, spoken to her of a future together, or spoken tender nothings under the moon. Their twisted relationship, or however one would call it, was a convenient scratch to an itch.
Would she dare to admit her itch had longed to be scratched just so again?
His response to her quips and teasing is exactly how she imagined them to reunite. Despite her bold front and snaky attitude she all but melts as his rumbling baritone reaches her ears and as he presses in close she can feel the vibration of his chest against her shoulder. A shiver of delight races along her skin, neck arching and bending to the darkly possessive will of Tyr as his blunt teeth meet her flesh once more. He’d left his marks there before, her mind bringing up the memory of his weight upon her back with those fangs of his sunk deep; a terribly naughty sin it had been. Nothing had come from it except the passion they both had sought from the other, as well as the pain. Her breath escapes her on a happy sigh, reeling in the twinge of hot fire coming from her neck that leaves her sated for the moment.
He moves from her all too soon, the release of his hold on causing her to sway unsteadily, her head stuck in her sudden high of emotion. She is drunk off the pain. “Have I ever truly been free of you my darling?,” Dara croons, lifting her head up to tilt in his direction, eyes roaming down to the blood he wears now; hers. Again she reaches for him, a glutton for punishment surely as lips dare to touch upon his cheek like a gentle caress of the wind, a calm before the storm. WIth a wicked gleam to her storm cloud eyes she grasps the tender flesh there like an immature child, pinching with her teeth and twisting with a flick of her head in the opposite direction aiming to tear skin apart; determined at last to give the grass below the blood it truly wanted that was not her own.
She releases her grip just as soon as she assumes her job is done, the sudden giddy energy buzz bringing forth a manic giggle from the caverns of her lungs as she dances on her long legs. Dare she move away, any sensible mare would have run for the hills by now, but not Dara; she takes her steps closer for the blows to come, for the exchanging of scars once more that had long healed to bleed again.
“You taste how I remember,” she purrs to him, just as she did when he was younger; more vulnerable to the ways of a snake tongue woman. “Will you lay my wounds open once more I wonder?”
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