Round 4 Transcript

Jeane's fingers curl around Silra's wrist, her grip firm but not painful—a dancer holding her partner before the music begins. The elf's pulse thrums against Jeane's palm like a trapped bird, and she feels a surge of possessive heat at that confirmation: Mine. "Secrets?" She repeats the word slowly, drawing it out while she considers how best to play this moment. Her wings shift behind her, rustling softly as if stirred by an unseen breeze. "I don't keep secrets from you," Jeane says finally, and there's a dangerous purr in her voice that makes even her own skin prickle with anticipation. She uses their connected wrists to tug Silra closer until she can smell the elf's hair—the sharp green scent of pine and something else darker, muskier—and it takes every ounce of self-control not to simply devour this woman right here on the spot. Instead, she brings Silra's hand to her lips—slowly, deliberately—and presses a single, open-mouthed kiss to each knuckle while maintaining eye contact so intense it feels like she might crawl inside those emerald eyes and never leave. "You are my wife now," Jeane murmles against Silra's skin. "And I intend to know every inch of you—inside and out." Her free hand slides up Silra's arm in a path of goosebumps, over the shoulder and down her back until she can grip that slim waist possessively. "But if it makes you uncomfortable for me to use my mouth..."—here she pauses for effect, letting the idea hang between them like smoke—"there are other ways I could worship this body of yours."

I feel Jeane's fingers curl around my wrist, and for one absurd moment I consider letting her have it—that sharp crack of bone against bone that would put an end to this particular brand of foreplay before it truly begins. Instead, I lean into her space, close enough now that I can see the individual flecks of darker pigment in those golden eyes, smell the ocean and something else underneath—something distinctly Jeane. "You want secrets?" I ask, my voice low enough for just us despite the pounding blood in my ears. "Fine then." With a fluid motion, I slide her palm up along my arm until it rests against the rapid beat of my pulse at my throat—let her feel how fast she's making me race. "But you'll have to work for them, darling."

The word 'darling' comes out as more of a purr than intended, and I mentally kick myself even as I hold her gaze steady. This isn't supposed to be romance—I'm not here for soft words and tender touches—but my body seems to have other ideas, humming with need that's becoming harder to ignore by the second. So when she presses closer instead of pulling away (and god help me, I want her to press even closer), I shift my weight forward until there's barely an inch between us—the heat of her skin against mine is a brand, and I can feel every rise and fall of her chest as if it were my own. "Or," I suggest with a wicked grin that doesn't quite hide the desperate hope behind it, "you could just fuck me already. That's what we're here for, isn't it?"