A hand on her hip. Fingers digging into flesh, grasping at bone. She gasps, ruby lips parting in a picturesque silhouette. The hand remains in place, holding her firmly and she remains still, aside from her momentary expression. His other hand roughly fondles her breast, the delicate flesh exposed to the exquisite agony of pinching and pulling and squeezing–all none too lightly.
As if on cue, the hand rests against her skin as he leans his body over hers, his mouth zoning in on her other hip. His breath is hot on her flesh and then his teeth are sinking into it, bruising and cutting her skin. He swirls his tongue inside his mouth, against her skin, before pulling away. His teeth leave marks on her skin as droplets of blood spring from open wounds.
She cries but cuts off shortly as he casts her a swift glance. She clamps her mouth shut as his finger traces the marks on her hip. The touch is gentle but every movement is searing in her imagination, worse than the bite itself. She holds her breath and, almost without realizing it, clenches her thighs. He feels the movement and is upon her in a second, roughly pushing her legs apart. Her vulva glistens in the lamp light, wet from her arousal. Yet, he knows she will be wetter still before the night ends.
