X | Dravidian’s Passion
His years of rowing had given him the hands of a masseuse—calloused, to be sure, but soft somehow, too, managing to be both solid and supple, and imbued with equal parts iron and finesse. She sighed as she felt them glide up and down the small of her back beneath the fur and her tunic, even while his breath and lips kissed the inside of her legs. Her grip upon the steely tines relaxed as the metal warmed to her touch, and she could feel the tension leave her like so much cold liquid as he rubbed his fingers gently but firmly into her flesh.
“Talk to me, Dravidian ...”
“Relax,” he said, playing along. “As though you were in my gondola ... floating lazily down the River Dire on a summer afternoon.”
She laughed a little at her own request.
“I can see it. I trail a
