Wisp was putty in his grasp as he pulled her close, tangling their bodies and reveling in the warm of the drink, of each other, of the scents of their arousal. Date night sure had escalated quickly, hadn't it? She supposed she couldn't help it; the temptation hanging in the very air, her husband going through such romantic lengths to make them time alone, remembering the ghost of his touch against her most sensitive and unknown places.
Many women were jealous to have an experienced lover, especially when they were so fresh in the game themselves. Wisp just felt a little bad he was getting ages of wisdom with little of the fun that should've been in her repertoire. She'd figure it out as they went, she promised herself -- an easy oath, considering how much fun the activity was.

She'd certainly done the right thing in turning over, for starters.

'As much as I enjoy the sweetness of these damn berries, there’s something even fucking sweeter I’m craving,' he said, prompting a giggle from her wine-sweetened lips. She tried to ask what, but damn him, he might've won this round; the word peaking to a gasp as he delved deeper into his affections.
She didn't think about her poor sensitive nipples until he was brushing past them, and the air from his husky breaths made her thankful he seemed to be more cognizant of her allergy-sore skin than even she was. Somehow, it only made the moment more sensual; who didn't like a man they didn't even have to tell what to do, or warn away from? Who didn't appreciate a lover who knew her better than she did?

Sarge worked his way lower, and she squirmed, a breathy whine squeaking from her throat, lifting into each scrape of fang or wet kiss along her sensitive undercarriage. She might not have realized he was teasing her had he not spoken again, lost in the vague flitter of pleasure merely from his attention that she nearly forgot that yeah, it got so much fucking better than this.

He hadn't even properly touched her yet, and she was glistening.

He met her eyes, amorous gaze crystal clear at their closeness, and Wisp's jaws parted to pant out obediently: Sarge, please! Please, touch me. Taste me.

Deserving.

She'd waited longer than he could comprehend for a companion who could meet her spark and show her a whole new world she didn't even know existed, and she'd longed for someone to call her own as long as she'd been alive. For so, so long, the Fae Queen and her job had been enough, but her husband shook her faith in that.
If he wasn't allowed to come with her life after life... she didn't know if she could go back to what life had been like before. Was she sent here to retire, or was her so-prided loyalty faltering? Right now, didn't matter. She just knew she was as deserving as they came, but pulling that sort of card felt rude, not to mention a little too serious.
And man, was it easy to shove aside the pesky thoughts she didn't want to focus on right now.

Wisp whined, her hips lifting to meet his touch, body begging even if she didn't know how. She stumbled over her words before they even became sounds in her throat, mind whirling. The sound tapered off into a bit of a squeal as he exhaled hot over her, and she squirmed in place, trying not to be so loud the other inn-habitants were left grimacing at the walls at the unholy sounds. That was just being polite. Some part of her thought, fuck it; she wanted them to know she was claimed, he was claimed.

Sarge, she gasped, Please, please, please, baby, please, ah cannae stand it anymore.

What did he want her to say? Did he forget she was a goddamn virgin before him? Was the nonsensical bullshit bouncing around her head good enough?

Ah need you so gods-damned bad, Sarge, please. Ye cannae tease me all night!

She'd never felt the need to challenge him less, not even for the fun of the banter. His urging whipped her into a frenzy, his daring touches, his hot breath, the heavy smell of tobacco and flowers. She loosed a long, slow whine as his teeth found her leg again, jerking up into his touch with surprise. She nearly started begging again when he said he could, certainly, tease her all night long, but he didn't leave her waiting.

Wisp's moan was languid, perhaps a little loud before she bit down on her lip to close her jaws into a sensual groan.

He shifted, grabbing her, and she'd never felt pleasure like the hard-begged victory of his tongue finally finding her needy core, the pressure of him pulling her closer, tighter. She didn't pull away -- she pushed into him, urging him on with her body and soft pleas of his name.
Flying didn't even feel this freeing.

Yes, she hissed in a way that still sounded imploring, pants coming harsher now, Sarge, fuck.

It wasn't enough. He wanted to talk of deserving, well, Wisp had no intention on being the only one receiving a little TLC from their spouse, and she didn't think she had the self-control to wait for him to be done and then keep carrying on.

Turn around, she whispered, heart caught in her throat alongside notes of wordless pleasure, Stand over me.

Wisp's intentions were left in fizzle for later, but somehow, she found it in herself not to complain. When his ministrations halted, she giggled, high off the moment and feeling the burn of the berries working their way through. When he grabbed her again, paws rough, she squealed with the same giddiness, fully expecting him to take the chance and lord himself over her.
It seemed her begging had worked a bit too well, however.

Sarge flipped her back onto her stomach, and before she could even think to tease or protest his teeth found her scruff; suddenly, she didn't want to say a fucking word that might pop this lusty bubble of sensation consuming them, burning them up from the inside.
He ground his hips against her, and she leaned pleadingly back into him, desperation growing. He didn't seem any more willing or able to hold back than she was, and in the next movement, shoved himself inside her.

A primitive whimper left Wisp as he dominated her, pounded their hips against each other, wet sounds filling the room. She curved her spine to bend to his grip, press up into him, back against him, taking him as deeply as she could and moaning every inch of the way. Each spasm of her core seemed to allow him further access, more pleasure, and she all but sobbed his name or some other sweet nothing at every other thrust. Was this begging enough, words barely intelligible, shoving back to meet each plunge, relishing in the way his bulk folded to cradle her close so she wasn't sliding about in the nest for traction?

The bestial nature of their coupling was enough to leave her writhing in pleasure beneath him, glad for his grip around her, tight as if she were the only thing in this world that mattered.

At this rate, they would sear and burn together, and Wisp didn't think she'd have it any other way. Caressing, consuming, colliding; two forces of nature delighting over their meeting. She was made for Sarge, she thought; their gruff and hard-headed ways, their determination, the way they balanced each other out, even down to the ease in which he could read her without words. If she didn't know better, she might've wondered if Queenie had dipped her hand into the forming of a mortal and created him... for her.

Whatever it was, she was still certain Sarge was perfect.

He released her for a moment, praising her, and fuck -- jesus fuck, it was almost over then and there. She clenched around him so hard it very nearly hurt, but, frankly, she liked poking at that boundary too. Who would've guessed?
It helped, of course, and she often forgot, that her sense of touch just wasn't what it used to be. Walking, general movements and touches, even the itchiness of her allergies; none of them had any sort of deep pressure to it in a way that made her acknowledge the feeling, not like the way Sarge's grip on her felt like the firm, loving grasp of flame.

To someone half-dulled to the world, the intensity of it all very nearly sent her over the edge, and she teetered on her precipice for a delightfully long time. If she could've held herself there forever, she might've.
But Sarge's rhythm was changing, and where she thought surely it couldn't get any better than this...

Of course it did.

"Yyyours," she agreed, voice rising in pitch and warbling with delight, craning her neck to rub her head against his throat, to pepper sloppy kisses along his cheek and throat, "All yours, baby."

Her breaths came in quick flutters.

"Sarge," she whispered, begged, "Please."