Sarhilla did not miss a step as Valyk turned and twisted her in the dance, booted feet swift and sure even as she kicked aside a severed hand, her movements made more fluid by the blood and gore coating the concrete of the warehouse. The tips of her long auburn hair were soaked and heavy, as was her grey corset, tunic and leggings, making for a terrible yet enchanting scene, her ivory skin mottled with the life of her enemies.
Valyk himself was a striking partner – black leather vest lined on either side with silver throwing knives, hilts still gleaming wet, the daggers along his black denims similarly stained and twinkling with every stomp of his silver-tipped boots. His bare arms were literally painted in blood, swirls and patterns made with every kill, the blond streaks in his black hair made crimson, mahogany eyes gleaming with the lust from battle as well as for the woman firmly ensconced in his embrace.
A groan from a still-breathing corpse caught his attention, and without skipping a beat, he swung his bloody bride over to the man, dipping her so she could flick open her war fan and cut his throat, effectively silencing the intrusion on their soirée. The music was in their heads, the dance in their bodies, the death upon their flesh as they celebrated at long last their desire for battle and bloodletting.
Valyk led Sarhilla into an unsullied part of the warehouse, stripping off her tunic and corset as his hips guided her in the beat of the tango, herself ripping open his vest and casting it aside, revealing his sculpted torso, her ample breasts pressing into his hands and lips. Finding an old, metal desk, he lay her back, fingers running across the tops of her leggings teasingly, her hands grasping his hair, willing him to the spot she needed him most.
“A little pain with your pleasure, Milady?” he rumbled.
“Always,” she breathed.
Taking one of his daggers, he cut along the sticky, wet fabric, slowly, excruciatingly, finally exposing her mound and ripping away the hindrance to his desire. He ran the tip of the blade along the inside of her thigh, enjoying the way her breasts heaved in anticipation of his gift, her sharp cry when the tip bit into flesh, the dried blood of her victims cracking as he made a two-inch cut, the smell of her blood mixing with other’s causing him to growl like a ravenous wolf.
Sarhilla saw stars when his lips and teeth closed around the wound, his fingers finding her aching bud and dripping insides. It had always been like this with them – first the slaughter, then the sex, what some might have viewed as a sick and twisted partnership proved to be the most honest and pure she’d ever known. He did not judge her for being fond of battle and blood, in fact reveled in it, as well as – like herself – equally appreciative of butterfly wings and other acts of Nature’s beauty. They were opposites, yet perfectly matched, different patterns yet perfectly suited to each other’s fit.
Her body soared with the heady mix of his teeth and hands, one causing unbelievable pain, digging into her wound relentlessly, the other causing unimaginable ecstasy, rewarding him with a gush of her nectar, which he drank in as greedily as her blood. So lost in her cloud of pleasure, it was her body that responded, not her mind when her hips bucked to encourage him deeper, his mouth claiming hers as his own, the taste of iron and salt sending Sarhilla flying, his hips continuing the tango inside her, at first slowly sensual, then maddening staccato until their roars and screams echoed upon the walls and they lay spent and soaked in blood, sweat, and sex.
“Do you think Praius will seek revenge?” Sarhilla quipped, stroking Valyk’s hip.
“Probably,” Valyk chuckled, looking deep into her eyes. “Or maybe he will learn his lesson this time – never tango with a woman that’s not his own.”©2013 Spiritwind Studios