A Knight's intensity

It doesn’t matter. Locked away in their silent world, without anyone to guard her virtue. He's her protector, hands move as if she wills it, already avaricious, roams her body, fingers nudging against the exposed flesh, and he releases a kind of agonized groan when she responds.

How long have they done this, where she's spent an eternity with him? She tells him, without actually saying so--that he's handsome in his garb, even dirty—from the clinging dust, along the dunes. The sun's falling heat on his roughened fingers, his armour's hard, the thick plate covers him harder than rich adamantite. When he’s taken off everything—his eyes never strays. She wants him. She almost blushes, doesn't turn away. She's bolder than she’s ever been, even when she's not his first.

He is a silent man, his shoulders and arms are scarred, the gashes have healed—the faint lines of war reveals his prowess in battle. She glides her thumbs, rakes short nails along his muscled and toned chest, the skin’s striking in the shadow and light. His stomach’s taut from conflict, and if she touches him— there, below, lower still-- the muscle's hard, smoother still when she’s roamed the width of his hips.

It happens. He wants her, she needs him; he’s pulling at her clothing, his hands are large, over the front, where her breasts presses back to his palm- –fingers tugging at the clasps, where the cloak holds her frame together. They fall to her feet, a puddle around slim ankles. He wants to stop calling her, memorizing her in the darkness, stops calling her by these proper titles and longs to drive his tongue where her mouth is parting…

Even when she’s completely naked, she rises on the tips of her toes, answering his greedy kiss, her fingers at his jaw, his sun-burnt cheek, as if she can’t get enough –spreading her hand over the hard planes of his features—patrician nose, aristocratic bearing etches on his dark, fine brow.

she kisses him, deeply, where all the emotion and love pour from her soul.