For illmantrim and moonanstars
She liked him in plaid. In blue jeans and tanks that rode up on the muscles of his abdomen. She liked him in denim. Soft, worn jackets, pants that were torn at the knee and groin. She liked the feel of his body under cotton and felt. Muscles coiled with tension when she touched him softly.
She liked the way he trembled when the tips of his fingers moved over her face, when his eyes watched her with awe. As if she was precious. As if she was to be desired, wanted. As if she was not a pariah in her own home, her own family, her own blood.
But most of all, she liked him in leather. In the uniform that fit so snugly around his skin. She liked when he came to her room after a mission that had been close to going wrong. When he was confused and in need. When he came to her wanting comfort, solace … wanting her. When he stood in the doorway of her bedroom, shaking with rage and she was the only one who could give him what he desired.
She liked him best when his eyes were black with lust.
Mmmm Wolvie ...