The moan that escaped as his lips crushed hers was quiet and quick, though the surprise was clear: It was difficult to be prepared for such a fluid movement as he'd made, and one that felt so urgent. The tension had been slowly accumulating and, much like a pressure cooker, had to find release. The hunger had been there. It was only a matter of time before it became too much for either of them.

Her heart pounds a cadence in her chest, beginning to fall in time with the man's as he pressed against her. The coat she'd been holding onto drops to the floor as her backside hits the wall of the encapsulated space. Her hands reached up to grip the front of his shirt, if only to draw him closer; her hips pressed against an increasing need in him. As their bodies grew warmer, their individual scents began to mingle-- the lavender soap she used pairing surprisingly elegantly with his coppery and almost woodsy musk. It made her weak at the knees, and she might have stumbled had she been standing unaided.

The combination of it all made Melinoe moan against the starving act. She had never experienced anything like it before, not even when the pair of them had been intoxicated. This was different. While they were mostly of clear and sound mind, the events playing out were enough to replicate the heady sensation of a drunken night.