rohan
how fickle my heart

She is like smoke from a fire—the last dying embers, hot and smoldering, twisting and writhing around his body. The stallion feels her slipping through his fingers, a sultry vapor and broken promises that slides over his skin, shifting and darting from beneath his touch. They play with each other—two cats, poised with their claws unsheathed, flicking their tails and narrowing the slits of their eyes as Cheshire grins play naughtily across their lips.
 
Suddenly the bitterness of winter is sweetened, the stallion’s body warming as his blood quickens and his skin grows hot beneath the thick hair of his winter coat. The worries of his past and the apprehensions of his future dissolve in the wake of the mare’s womanly wiles—and oh how he embraces it. Willingly, readily, he falls victim to her whims.
 
Zandora’s words bring a smirking grin to his mouth, coiling against the curve of her neck. He presses further, trailing down her crest to her withers, his breath billowing in hazy wisps across her back. For a moment, it would seem that he has caught her—the crafty vixen trembling beneath his touch, her slender body poised silently and her skin hot below the heat of his breath—but in a moment, she is gone. Spinning away from him as smooth as smoke, the black and purple mare dances from his reach.
 
Rohan eyes her for a long moment, his body suddenly cold with the absence of hers, the wintry winds swelling like a freezing wall between them. The stallion’s pride tells him to move—to leave. Abandon her while she forsakes him and leave her wanting (for the lust is unmistakable in her expression, the yearning trail of her eyes, and the playful curl of her mouth). But alas, she has trapped him as he has her, ensnaring him in her web as women are wont to do, and he submits too willingly to the wanton desires of the flesh. It is too late to fight it back now (and he doesn’t try).
 
Just as she loves to play with her fire, so does he with his smoke.
 
Shifting forward with the wind ripping at the long hair lining his legs and underbelly, the Warlander reaches for her again. “I was hoping you’d say that, darling,” his voice is deep against the chill of night, husky and wanting beneath the masculinity of his tone. He stands as a towering, still statue beside Zandora, despite the blood rushing through his veins and his heart quickening in his chest—his body pulling him deeper into black desires.

Angling his body, Rohan shifts his chest from hers, following his muzzle as it wanders to rest just above her croup. He would ask for permission if words were needed, but as he glances back, his eyes say enough.


“Speech.”