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Witch. The whisper echoes inside her mind, as sinuous as a dragon's tail, as Selendrile's tongue now tracing the inside of her thigh.
She isn't sure what being a witch involves, exactly, but she knows what being a respectable young woman does, and she's fairly certain this isn't it. Selendrile licks at her like he wants to eat her alive, puts his teeth on her sometimes just to watch her shiver. She grabs a fistful of his golden hair and pulls, hard. It isn't enough to hurt him, but it is enough to make him look up at her with a flash of annoyance in his narrowed eyes. Another new discovery of something that shouldn't send a rush of heat through her, but inexplicably does.
"What do you want?" he says, voice low and rough.
In reply, she pushes at his shoulders until he's lying on his back, and kneels astride him.
"This," she says, simply.
His hips rise to meet the challenge in her voice. He's hard and lean and hot beneath her, and she guides his hands up under the edge of her skirt, to the source of the dampness spreading between them. His hands grip her thighs and lift effortlessly; she bites at her lip until she is fully settled against him. Slowly, she rocks her hips downward and watches his eyelids flutter shut. She does it again, until her legs are shaking with the effort and Selendrile's grip begins to falter.
"Witch," he whispers against her mouth, and her eyes fly open as she shudders wildly, her small choked cry crushed between their lips.
Catching her breath afterwards, she decides she never wanted to be respectable, anyway.