The Written Word

Three thousand years asleep has a tendency to take it out of a man. Whispered back, unconsciously meeting that quiet, intimate tone. Faelyn had always been easy to work up, once you knew which buttons to press to simply make him melt, though that was hardly necessary in the moment after so very long. He'd allowed himself to be moved, molding himself back against the curve of Ruth's body. He wanted every. last. inch. of that man pressed up against him, and pressed into him. 

His head tilted to one side, bearing the line of his slender neck to him once more, the marks left previously still rosy on his skin. Don't be gentle. Gentle was the last thing he wanted in that moment. It was a risk, and he knew that, but there was something about that fact in and of itself that made him drive for that all the more.