Burning, burning – Elia's mouth was full of the taste of spice and char and Kennet, the taste of his lips and power, dark and rich and delightful beyond all belief The witch wrapped herself around him, eager hands and lips unable to get enough. Being against him burned her, reddened her flesh only to have it heal in the moments later, when her shadows flickered across to soothe her.
Her fingers clung to his shoulders, then slid up into his hair when he pressed her back against the doorframe to his bedroom. It didn't matter if his fingers left her thighs singed, or if the door was never closed behind them, or if Management knew – although Elia didn't know whether or not Management cared about her on-going thing with the Ringmaster. Nor did she care. All that mattered was the exquisite burn of Kennet's hands on her, his lips searing hers, skin pressed against skin. And the heady draw of his power against hers, pulling, consuming.