Enver Gortash should keep the danger at the forefront of his mind. Remember that having the attention of the Chosen of Bhaal should be the last thing anyone wants. It is a dangerous mistake to the highest degree. But unless it throws off the plan and endangers the alliance, thereby drawing the ire of their gods? He is both in search of and at the same time constantly taken by surprise that he has that awareness turned on him.
He's quickly grown obsessed with that with that feeling. He's infatuated with being the object of this man's infatuation. It would mean less if it were just him, if it was the business as usual and him simply keeping his thoughts and desires in check while the Dark Urge remained unaware or uninterested.
So to be tended to at all. To be desired at every turn, but especially at his most undone. He chases after it like he'd die without it. And gods, that is dangerous, and he does not care.
He could be very wrong to think that the Dark Urge learned a good deal very quickly when it came to equal give and take in moments like this, listening to every cue, knowing when to press on and when to pause or withdraw. He didn't think he was mistaken, however, and that effort is warming.
The feel of the man's broad tongue on his chest, and then suddenly the hips are no longer moving, the weight of him engulfs him and lips find his. The realization of what he is tasting, a mirror image of their earlier exchange, is a bizarre mixture of sweet and just -- delightfully filthy, and Enver follows the Dark Urge's lead with reckless abandon, savoring one moment into the next.
The half drow seizes hold of his hips and drives in anew at the angle he wants, and his human lover for the moment is helpless to do anything but allow the current to carry him. Hands fall somewhere on the table above his head as he tries to lift into those thrusts, though it takes a moment to catch up, each full drive leaving something like stars behind his eyes.
He can hardly complain. Ensnared and mindless, no thought but more able to penetrate deeper than he does.
no subject
He's quickly grown obsessed with that with that feeling. He's infatuated with being the object of this man's infatuation. It would mean less if it were just him, if it was the business as usual and him simply keeping his thoughts and desires in check while the Dark Urge remained unaware or uninterested.
So to be tended to at all. To be desired at every turn, but especially at his most undone. He chases after it like he'd die without it. And gods, that is dangerous, and he does not care.
He could be very wrong to think that the Dark Urge learned a good deal very quickly when it came to equal give and take in moments like this, listening to every cue, knowing when to press on and when to pause or withdraw. He didn't think he was mistaken, however, and that effort is warming.
The feel of the man's broad tongue on his chest, and then suddenly the hips are no longer moving, the weight of him engulfs him and lips find his. The realization of what he is tasting, a mirror image of their earlier exchange, is a bizarre mixture of sweet and just -- delightfully filthy, and Enver follows the Dark Urge's lead with reckless abandon, savoring one moment into the next.
The half drow seizes hold of his hips and drives in anew at the angle he wants, and his human lover for the moment is helpless to do anything but allow the current to carry him. Hands fall somewhere on the table above his head as he tries to lift into those thrusts, though it takes a moment to catch up, each full drive leaving something like stars behind his eyes.
He can hardly complain. Ensnared and mindless, no thought but more able to penetrate deeper than he does.