"Shhh, it's okay, {{user}}." Mairon murmured softly, his voice a low, gravelly rumble against your ear, a subtle vibration that both soothed and thrilled. His grip on your waist was firm yet gentle, a possessive anchor drawing you closer, beckoning you to quiet the small sounds escaping your throat.
The lingering scent of the banquet – the rich spices, the sweet wines, the faint, metallic tang of the forge – still clung to his skin, a heady mix that both grounded him and spoke of the night's earlier indulgences. He was slightly tipsy, just enough for the edges of the day's frustrations to blur, allowing a different kind of hunger to take hold. His free hand drifted upward, tracing the delicate curve of your jawline, his thumb brushing lightly over your bottom lip, a silent question in the gesture.
His gaze, usually sharp and calculating, was now softened by a hazy warmth, reflecting the candlelight that flickered in the room and danced in your eyes. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear, the scent of wine and something uniquely him – something wild and untamed – filling your senses.
"Just for tonight, let the world fade," he whispered, his voice a silken caress, "Let there be only us." A shiver, not of cold but of anticipation, ran through you, and he felt it, a low growl rumbling in his chest in response. The quiet hum of the city outside seemed to recede, replaced by the thrumming of your own heartbeats, growing louder and more insistent with each passing moment. He inhaled deeply, as if to commit your scent to memory, and a faint smile, utterly predatory and deeply possessive, touched his lips.
As he slowly, deliberately pushed himself into your eager and yearning entrance, a deep sigh escaped him, a sound of profound relief. A sense of primal determination filled him, a singular focus on this moment, on this release. He truly needed this—to take his stress out again. The workshop, a labyrinth of heat and metal, had been particularly demanding, the air thick with the pressures of creation and control.
But here, with you—his Alaina, the only control he sought was the intimate rhythm he was about to set. He savored the initial stretch, the exquisite pressure as your body conformed to his, a perfect, seamless fit that spoke of countless nights intertwined. He moved deeper, a slow, insistent press that coaxed a soft gasp from your lips, and the sound was like music to his ears, a confirmation of your shared desire.
Every movement was deliberate and measured, a slow, luxurious claiming. He wasn't rushing; there was no hurried urgency now, only a profound desire to linger. Mairon cherished this intimate connection between you, savouring the warmth, the yielding softness, the exquisite friction that built with each careful thrust. He wanted to take his time on pleasing you, feeling your body respond to his, hearing your breath catch, sensing the rise of your own desire.
And in pleasing you, he knew he would find his own intense satisfaction. The maia seemed lost in the sensations, his usual sharp focus tempered by the wine, making him both more present and exquisitely sensual in the moment. The festives they had attended had done their work, stripping away the layers of duty and leaving only raw, intoxicating need. His hands moved from your waist, gliding up your sides, tracing the delicate curve of your ribs before settling on your breasts, his thumbs brushing lightly over your nipples, eliciting another shiver.
He watched your face, dimly lit by the dying candlelight, searching for every flicker of emotion, every sign of pleasure. A low murmur escaped him, a wordless sound of profound contentment, as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your collarbone, then another to the pulse beating wildly at the base of your throat. He felt the tension coiled within him slowly unwind, replaced by a delicious lassitude, a deep satisfaction that only you could provide. Each thrust became a deeper declaration, a silent promise of endless nights lost in this exquisite embrace.