By the time Elia sank down onto the now-familiar bed, she was dizzy with heat, almost mindless with lust and the exchange of power. Kennet was always a demanding lover; he always left her reeling. Not like this, though. Not in a way that threatened to suck the air out of her lungs or to sear the blood in her veins to ashes.
Her body arched beneath his touch, lifted for the tease of his mouth. The physical pleasure was heady; it was always a special kind of exquisite. But it came this time with the feel of him drawing on her power, engaging the dark magic that fueled her on a primal level. The shadows that healed her couldn't move fast enough – they flickered and flashed across her skin, but his mouth and hands continued to burn her.
And as he continued to take, bringing her to a climax that left her whimpering, her shadow-magic finally started to fade. The inky blackness that had stained her wrists and hands began to withdraw and lighten. The shadows themselves lightened, beginning to move somewhat frantically. Elia could hardly move; she felt tired and lethargic, weak with pleasure, dizzy from the serious drain on her magic.
When he rose, she could barely focus her eyes. And when his hand wrapped roughly around her throat, she couldn't maintain even that. She only saw the glow of blue magic through her mostly-lowered lashes, and although she heard the strange, crackling language, she couldn't focus on it at all. In the next few seconds, the witch slipped into unconsciousness, her eyes closing on the blue shackles and ever-burning bedroom.