accio-firewhiskey prompted: weather forecast
schmoo999 prompted: honey bees
3pirouette prompted: Pink and Yellow

He was outright cheating.

It should have taken at least a minute for him to navigate the sodden, tangled knots on the front of her dress. Instead, he just waves a hand, and her bodice falls open as if by magic.

No as if required. He used magic.

And then, he has the nerve to smirk at her, mockingly, when she gasps at the sudden sensation of cold air on her damp skin, and tries to wrap her dress back around her. It's not that she's at all opposed to his taking her clothes off - quite the opposite, in fact – but the shock is almost too much to bear.

He shakes his head, waves a disapproving finger at her, and pushes her hands back down to her sides. He doesn't hold them there - he has much more interesting things to do with his fingers - but he glares at her when she tries to move them again, "Now, now, dearie, you've been through something traumatic. You need to rest."

"This isn't particularly restful," she points out, with a small smile, "Perhaps you should leave me in peace."

"Now, Belle, for all that reading, you've never heard that ravishment is the best cure for shock?"

She giggles, and shakes her head. He gazes at her fondly for a moment, and her skin flushes just from the intensity of that smile, the adoration in his eyes. How could she have missed that, all those times before? Then his hands are on her breasts, ghosting feather-light touches over sensitive skin, and she gasps. Suddenly, it isn't so funny.

"Well, then, allow me to educate you."

His fingernails scratch over her skin, circle against one sensitive nipple, and her back arches up into his touch. He nods, approvingly, and repeats the motion.

She could swear he's laughing at her, and somewhere in the fog of her mind she feels a twinge of irritation. She suddenly wishes that she could touch him, torture him the way he seems intent on torturing her.

Then his mouth retraces the path his fingers had followed, and he's running his tongue over her puckered flesh, and there is no more thought.

His lips move to lavish attention on her other breast, as his quick, restless fingers quest lower. They reach the waistband of her skirt, run a line under the hem along her flat stomach, warm fingers against frozen skin, and she watches him with wide eyes, breathing hard.

He looks up at her, presses one last kiss to her chest, and his fingers shift just a little lower, run over the curve of her hipbone.

"Now, aren't you feeling better already?"

"Um…" Better wasn't the word she'd use: excited, nervous, overwhelmed, heading slowly but surely towards absolutely bloody amazing seemed closer to the mark.

One finger suddenly darts lower, scrapes against her soaked underwear, against some wonderfully sensitive spot that makes her cry out in surprise, her eyes fixed on his, "Yes!"

"Good…" he almost purrs, as he shifts down her body to sit between her legs. Her heart is pounding, faster than she's ever felt it, as he takes the waistband of her dress in two hands and pulls it apart.

The magic leaves a tingle in her legs, a warmth that fans out across her skin, as he tears her skirt in two and lays her bare to his feasting eyes.

He lets her lie there for a moment, stripped of her soaked clothing, basking in the summer sunshine. His expression is something akin to wonder, to awe, and she just has to lean up, to pull him down and kiss him long and tender. No one has ever looked at her like that: like she is some sort of goddess, and all he wants in the world is to worship at her feet.

"You're soaked, too," she reminds him, "Surely we should do something about that?"

He shifts, and grins when her eyes squeeze closed, as they align perfectly, his hard cock pressed against her hot, dripping core. He rotates his hips, so the friction spreads upwards, rubs hard against her clit, and she buries a whimpering scream against his shoulder.

"How do you feel, dearie?" he whispers in her ear, "Any better now?"

He stops, allows her to catch her breath and look back up at him, and waits for her response, "Getting there…" she's proud of the coy little smile she musters, the almost-seductive look that gleams in her eyes.

She can see the moment when he decides that enough is enough, that he's wearing far too much clothing for true ravishment to take place.

She has to laugh, although it comes out high and hoarse, when he snaps his fingers, and she feels the laces of his complicated boots unravel against her naked shins. There are many advantages to having a magically-inclined lover, Belle is discovering. One of which is that nakedness is much easier achieved.

When he's as naked as she, as ready as she, he lines them up and searches her face with his eyes. For all the domineering, all the exerted control, in this moment, when they're about to cross an irreversible boundary, he's suddenly vulnerable, seeking permission.

She swallows, hard, pleasure bursting through her at the sensation of him right there, right in the centre of the ache between her legs, and smiles wide, telling him that it's all right, that she needs this as much as he does, that she has done for a good long while now.

He moves forward, over her, and slides all the way inside. She cries out, clings to him, digs her fingernails into his shoulders at the sensation.

And he's a gentleman. He doesn't begin immediately, doesn't fuck her hard and fast, like an animal or a monster. He waits, he lets her adjust to him, waits for her to sigh and shift against him impatiently, needing the friction more than she needs oxygen, before he starts to move, thrusting hard and slow.

She cranes her head up, her lips finding their new favourite spot at the corner of his jaw. She nibbles lightly, and he quivers against her, stilling before picking up the pace somewhat. She smiles into his warm skin, and leans up to his ear, bites lightly on his earlobe.

He makes a harsh sound, guttural and barely human, against her neck, and she hutches her legs up, needing more of him, all of him.

"Gods, Belle…" he growls against her, the vibration sending tendrils of pleasure across her skin, as he slams into her, as far as he can go, ripping a scream from her throat as he fucked her into the ground. She rocks against him, encouraging, feeling the tension in her belly spiral closer to release with every grind of his hard cock against her clit.

"Come for me, Belle, please," he half-pants, half-groans, and when has she ever been able to resist his commands? She falls apart around him, screaming her release, her walls clenching hard around him as she rides out her orgasm.

He bites down on her shoulder, sucks hard as her climax triggers his own, and his sharp teeth and hard mouth leave a bruise on her skin.

He collapses against her, moves them around so she's back to lying on his chest, her hair drying in knots and tangles in the summer heat. He strokes the top of her head absently as they lie in the sunlight, and fall asleep curled up together in the grass.