Playing with Fire
A Forbidden Flame in Melantha's Woods
He wasn’t supposed to be there.
The woods were quiet — too quiet — except for the clumsy rustle of a man fumbling with branches. Melantha watched from behind a tree, amused, one brow arched like a black-winged question mark. Lunaire purred low beside her, her sleek body tense, as if she too sensed the insult.
A campfire.
In her forest.
Without asking.
The nerve.
He was handsome, she had to admit. Strong hands, a furrowed brow, and that rugged, eager look of someone trying to impress Mother Nature. But Nature didn’t need impressing. She needed reverence.
And Melantha?
She needed more than sparks.
She stepped from the trees, hips swaying like a slow spell, voice laced with sugar and danger.
“Well, well,” she said, arms crossed beneath her breasts. “Starting a fire in my woods without an invitation?”
He looked up, startled — and then captivated. “I— I didn’t know anyone was here.”
“Oh darling,” she purred, circling him like a panther, “I’m always here. The forest is me. And you… you’ve been naughty.”
He swallowed. “I just wanted warmth.”
Melantha leaned in close, her breath hot in his ear. “Then perhaps I’ll give it to you. Just… not the kind you were expecting.”
With a flick of her fingers, the dry twigs around him hissed and crumbled — soaked suddenly, mysteriously, through no hand of his own.
“No fire for you,” she whispered. “Not there.”
His eyes widened as she straddled his lap, pushing him back against the mossy forest floor. “But if you want to feel heat…” She slid her hips down slowly, grinding against the bulge rising beneath her. “I’ll light you up somewhere else.”
She tore open his shirt, kissed her way down his chest, then bit his neck hard enough to make him gasp.
“Punishment,” she murmured. “For arrogance.”
And then, she claimed him.
Her pace was wicked — slow at first, maddening, teasing — and then suddenly fierce, feral. He moaned her name like it was the only prayer he’d ever known. She grinned and rode him like a storm, a goddess of fire and fury, her hair wild, her thighs slick and hot with need.
“You want heat?” she hissed, panting, clawing at his back. “Here’s your fire. Between my thighs.”
He groaned, trembling, undone beneath her.
When she finally let him finish — gasping, broken, baptized in sweat and sin — she leaned down and kissed his lips softly, tenderly. Her touch now silk instead of flame.
“Next time,” she whispered, “ask permission.”
She stood, adjusted her dress, and walked off into the trees with Lunaire at her heels, leaving him trembling on the forest floor — scorched, spent, and utterly spellbound.
And though the firewood lay cold and damp beside him...
He had never felt warmer.
🔥🖤🔥
If my poems and stories truly touch your heart,
would you consider fluttering a little magic my way
by buying me a coffee?
It helps me keep writing,
keep dreaming,
keep letting these butterfly wings of mine flutter through stardust and ink.
