Isolde's heart races as Elynor's lips move against her skin. His hand slides down her back, pulling her closer until her body is flush against his. The heat of his skin seeps through her clothes, and she can feel every plane and curve of his muscular frame. His other hand still cradles her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone in a gentle caress that contrasts sharply with the intensity of his words and actions.
Unable to hold back any longer, she begins to pull at his trousers, "Elynor...."
Elynor stills her hands with a low groan, his forehead resting against hers. "Isolde," he murmurs, the words rough with desire. "We should... we should talk first." But even as he says it, his fingers tighten in her hair, his other hand sliding down to grip her hip possessively. She can feel the hard press of him against her stomach, the undeniable evidence of his arousal.
