The Cabin
By Rusalka

You're in a cabin, high up in the mountains. The walls are panelled in dark, polished wood, and there's a thick fur rug on the floor in front of the fireplace. You've got a fire going, because nights get chilly at this altitude, even in summer, and you're curled up on the rug with a glass of warm spiced wine and a box of bonbons.

This is nice, you think to yourself, but what I really need here is some company.

Before you even complete the thought, there's a flash of light, and Ares is there. He stands in the center of the room, feet apart, arms folded across his chest. His bronzed skin gleams in the firelight, and his eyes reflect the flames.

"Be careful what you wish for," he purrs in a low, sensuous voice that sends a shiver from the base of your neck right down to your toes.

He lowers his arms and walks toward you until a single short step separates your body from his. You are fascinated by the play of light and shadow on his broad chest and muscled arms. Unable to resist the impulse, you reach out and run your fingers up one sculpted bicep, marveling at the smooth heat of his skin.

"Don't worry," you tell him. "I wished very carefully."

You forget you're still holding the wine glass in your other hand until he takes it from you, and drains the wine in one gulp. A single ruby drop falls from his lips and lands, glistening, on the thick hair that covers his chest. He throws the empty glass into the fireplace, grips your shoulders with strong, callused hands, and crushes his lips against yours.

His mouth tastes of clove and cinnamon from the spiced wine. His tongue explores your mouth, thrusting, insistent. The fire warms your back, but it's not half as hot as his hand on your breast.

You press your hands against his back, and find yourself touching bare skin as his vest vanishes. You know that he could make your clothes vanish too, but instead he pulls back, undoes the top button on your blouse, and kisses the exposed hollow of your throat. He works his way down from there, one button at a time, kissing each new patch of skin as it's revealed. You bury your fingers in his thick, black curls and arch your back. Each kiss seems to leave a heat signature on your skin, lingering long after his lips have moved on.

Your blouse is completely open now, and Ares is crouched in front of you. His tongue circles your navel. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your jeans and falls backwards onto the rug, taking you with him. Apparently his patience has run out, because the rest of your clothes disappear, and your naked body presses full-length against his as he rolls you over and straddles you with his muscular legs.

He leans forward, pinning you with his weight, and kisses your throat right at the spot where your pulse is beating wildly under the skin. You feel the hardness of his cock against your thigh, and you know he's ready for you, just as you're ready for him, but he's taking his time. You grind your hips, rubbing your leg against him, and he groans.

He kisses his way down to your breasts, and takes one nipple in his mouth, rolling it beneath his tongue, teasing the sensitive tip until the sensation becomes almost unbearable, and your entire body is shuddering beneath him. You moan in protest as he lifts his head, and he chuckles softly, before bending down again to devote the same focused attention to your other breast.

"Ares..." you whisper. It is a plea, a command, a prayer. He obeys it, lifting himself up just enough to let you open your legs for him.

You reach down with one hand to guide him inside you. His gaze never leaves your face. His eyes are dark, but it's a hot, focused darkness, and you know that in this place, at this moment, nothing exists for him but you.

You wrap your legs around his waist and close your eyes as he begins to move inside you. At first, the rhythm he sets is slow, deliberate. But you match your movements to his, lifting your hips into every thrust, and slowly his self-control begins to slip. His breath comes in ragged gasps. A drop of sweat falls from his body onto yours, trickling warmly between your breasts. The rhythm grows faster, more urgent, building to a peak.

Heat spreads across your skin, so intense you feel as if your body should be glowing with it. You reach down and grip Ares' hips with both hands, drawing him closer, deeper. He shivers at your touch, and you force yourself to open your eyes so you can watch him as he comes.

Caught in this moment of pure pleasure, his face is surprisingly open, free of its usual dark arrogance. His skin is flushed, his hair wild and tangled. He throws his head back and bites his lip to keep from screaming, but a deep, shuddering moan still escapes from his throat. His hips buck wildly. The motion send you, too, over the edge, and you dig your nails into his back and cry out his name as you come.

Afterwards, all the two of you can do is lie still, waiting for your heartbeats to slow down. Ares is curled against your side, one arm and one leg still wrapped around your body, his head resting on your shoulder. You kiss his forehead and stroke his hair. He sighs and pulls you closer. You fall asleep right there on the rug, holding each other.

When you wake up in the morning, he's gone. The fire in the hearth has burnt out, and the morning air chills your skin. You're almost prepared to believe that the previous night had been an unusually vivid dream. But as you sit up, a bright spot of color on the rug catches your eye. There, nestled in the soft fur, is a single long-stemmed rose, with petals the color of blood.

The End