The breeze filters through the branches of trees made bare by autumn's grace, sifting down to sweep across the ground and lift the dark strands of her mane. They toss in fitful whirls against her skin, their color sparking from black to russet to mahogany in the shifting light. Like a crooked finger, bent in welcome, it beckons him forward and makes it hard to concentrate on the dulcet tones of her words. To focus on the banality of conversation when he knows that his lips could be much better utilized in other ways.
His attention catches on the news she imparts of her son. He does not know of Ajnur, but he cannot help the stray curiosity that sparks in his mind. Was Roheryn stepping down? Or had he left? Was her earlier commentary just a farce to hide the fact that his pale rival was already gone? If Ajnur was to take over, would she leave? Surely she wouldn't want to stay beneath the rule of her son for too long, after all, it would be hard for her to move on after the loss of Roheryn. The thoughts circle in his mind but find no purchase for lasting contemplation and file sullenly off to his memory for later consumption.
Solomon cannot bear to mull over the various conclusions that he could draw when he is far too distracted by the here and now.
Eyelashes are such a mundane thing, in the grand scheme of things. And yet, when they flutter delicately against her feminine cheekbones as she teases him with a familiarity he had only dreamed of achieving, they elicit such a wave of desire that he cannot help a sharp intake of breath.
She refuses to meet his gaze, and yet he cannot keep his eyes off of her. Being next to Feray isn't like being next to the others in his herd. She doesn't elicit a strong desire to cradle and protect her like Nadja did. Nor does he hesitate with a cautious respect for her viper tongue and quick heels like he would with Sicily. He cannot relax into her hands as he might with Columbina, content with the knowledge that she would see no wrong in him.
Feray is strong and fierce, carved from the red rocks of the Badlands themselves. The pale sky that always seems to stretch over Salem when he visits is wound into her coat, flecked with the red-brown sand that blows fitfully across it's surface. He is no more than the rocky crag of the Cove made into flesh, clad in the soft amber-gold and russet of sunrise, and the frothy tips of the ocean waves. Solomon does not know if it is luck or fate that has allowed their jagged edges to come together, but he desperately hopes that this will not be the end of it. No matter what results from these stolen moments, he is helpless to deny how much he wants her, both in this moment and the next. Feray is not his to have or to hold, and the forbidden nature of their current situation only enhances the lust that curls hungrily in his belly. The knowledge that should their flesh meld into one, he will not be able to protect what springs from their union should be enough to dampen the smoldering coals of his interest but it does not. Like throwing water onto a grease fire, it only accelerates his need and underlines the urgency of his want of her.
Am I not close enough Solomon, she says, and a primal part of him salivates at her use of his name. Silently, his green gaze focused unwaveringly on her own, he shakes his head no. She would not be close enough until his lips knew every whorl of hair on her forehead, and every sigh that she might make. Even then, it might still not be enough for him.
"Perhaps," he says with a grin, his gaze still locked on hers.
"But you want to," he says confidently, taking his cue from the way she presses still closer to him. Feray may still be trying to fend him off with words, but he can see the truth of her desire more clearly now in their proximity. She may not like it, but she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
She reaches for him and he squeals softly as her teeth find purchase against his cheek, the pain an aphrodisiac to his muddled mind. Hardly thinking of the consequences, he stretches to retaliate with his own parted maw seeking the tender flesh of her throat, only to loosen their grip as soon as it is made and bathe the spot with a gentle kiss. His muzzle still pressed against her skin, he twists his head to meet her gaze wickedly a grin still firmly carved into his lips. It is intoxicating to be this close to her - to touch and to taste what has always been forbidden from him.
"Are you sure you want to go there?" He challenges huskily, his whiskered lips still trailing against her skin. Every nerve ending in his body feels electrified by desire and delirious with want of her, and yet he holds back. He would not take away her choice in this matter, and yet he wills her assent with everything that he has. Instinct demands that he take what is within reach, regardless of her decision, but time has tempered him. He would not do to her what he had done to others in the past, nor would he willingly cut short a moment that may yet blossom into more.
Sensing that she might yet need more convincing, or at the very least, more time to make up her mind, Solomon continues to do his best to chip away at her self control. Her mane tickles at his nares and he follows their bidding, trailing his barely parted jaws along the ridge of her shoulder to where skin gives way to hair. Here, where he might yet hold himself steady as they come together, he tugs gently at the dark locks of her mane, his gaze still fixated on her face.
Stallion | Dutch Harness Horse Mutt | Champagne Grullo Tobiano | 17 Hands | The Cove