isolt griffin
I'm more alive than I've ever been
Just the sound of his voice in her ear, the low, rumbling baritone of it as it saturated what little space separated her body from his, was enough to breathe life into the phantom butterflies that lingered within her stomach. Even now, on their wedding day, he could awaken the very same rippling excitement that had hastened the tempo of her beating heart the first time that they had met. And his fingers upon her skin, as gentle a touch as it surely was, set her flesh ablaze with alluring anticipation... with unfathomable passion. He was the heat that would banish the unending chill of death. He was fire, and she craved him in all of the same ways, in all of the same measure, that he craved her.
So intense is the reaction of Isolt's body to her husband's touch that a moment of quietude permeates the wake of his query. In truth, they could have gone anywhere or nowhere at all and she would have cared naught as long as she was with him. Their destination was a matter quite trivial for Isolt cared only to linger in his arms, and in his bed, for as long a time as she might be permitted to do so. Slowly does she turn from the vessel's glossy wooden wheel to face her lover, a look of what could be nothing apart from unquestioning adoration glistening in the cerulean helixes of her eyes.
"Mmm," she ponders lightly, her hands coming to rest upon the broad planes of her husband's chest. "I've always wanted to see Spain- it seems so romantic." Her teeth rake ever so gently against the plumped, pouty cushion of her bottom lip as she looks to him then, brows pitched in an unspoken plea for his affirmation.