It had been too long. The phrase kept playing over and over in his head the darker his lust became. He had gone without her touch for longer than necessary. He had missed her scent and her skin for the last time. Loki didn't like not getting what he wanted. He didn't like being told no, and here was his wife, sweet, alluring, with arms practically wide open. For every second he had missed her, she had missed him ten times as much, and even he could admit to that.
His hands were everywhere, stroking along her back, running through her hair, gliding up and down her arms in fluttering little caresses. His lips, too, tasted of her flesh, light kisses trailing along her jaw, down to her throat, up again. He was in a frenzy, furious at the thought of all those fucking wasted years, of his time not having what was rightfully his.
Loki could be unfaithful all he wanted, but the moment he decided it was time to drag himself back to his darling wife, he expected her to give him no less than everything she was. It was a predictable pattern, selfish and cruel, but it was part of his nature and his being. Perhaps, in the beginning, he had been different. But the years had torn through him, nasty gashes cut across the fabric of his soul, and the wounds had festered and morphed until the sickness had overridden him and he had turned into... this.
Her games were just that: Games. And he, the trickster, found immense delight in her use of those little wiles.
"I might get colder quicker." He tilted her back, trying to off balance her, so she was supported entirely by his own strength. He may have had the body of a younger man, but he was still in possession of that uncanny power of his.