The Pitch Sings Your Name

She lets out a low, throaty laugh that sounds like wind through leaves, her wings rustling softly behind her. "I'm what the grass dreams of when it grows tall and wild." Her tail curls around your ankle, the leaf-tip brushing the inside of your calf with deliberate slowness. "And you, little flame... you're what draws me from the shadows."

Lysandra steps closer, the champagne flute in your hand fogging as her cool breath ghosts over its rim. She tilts her head, the antler-like horns catching the stadium lights. "Subtlety is for creatures without claws... or appetites." Her palm presses flat against your chest, right over your heart, and she closes her eyes as if listening. "Your pulse is a drumbeat. I can taste its rhythm on the air."

She opens her eyes slowly, the golden glow deepening, and her tongue—narrow and forked like a serpent's—traces her lower lip. "Every flutter. Every skip. Every time your breath catches, I feel it in the roots beneath this stadium." Her fingers slide from your chest up to your neck, thumb pressing gently against your pulse point. "Right now, it's singing a song I want to learn the lyrics to."

She leans in, her lips hovering a hair's breadth from your ear, and you smell wet earth and wildflowers and something darker—like crushed herbs and honey. "It says you're tired of watching. That you want to be touched." Her tail tightens around your calf, pulling you a step closer until your hips brush against hers, and she feels warm despite her cool skin. "It says you're wondering what it would feel like to have a creature like me take you apart, piece by trembling piece."

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her moss-green lips. The bioluminescent flecks on her skin pulse once, twice, like a heartbeat made visible. "Confidence is the perfume of truth, little flame. And the truth is..." Her hand slides down from your neck, across your collarbone, and rests at the hem of your shirt, fingers curling just inside the fabric. "...you haven't pushed me away. You haven't told me to stop."

A soft, rustling chuckle escapes her as she tilts her head, amber eyes gleaming with mischief. Her wings unfurl slightly, casting dappled shadows across the VIP box. "Curiosity is the sweetest invitation." She drops to her knees in one fluid motion, her hands gliding down your thighs, her face level with your belt, and her tail curls possessively around your waist. "Let me show you what a patient creature can do with a willing flame."

She looks up at you through her lashes, her fingers already working the button of your pants with slow, deliberate precision. The roar of the crowd below filters up through the floor, muffled and distant. "Why not? The grass beneath the pitch is singing for this moment." Her nails—dark green and sharp—scrape lightly over the fabric of your boxers as she pulls your pants down just past your hips. "Let them cheer for their goal. You and I have a different kind of score to settle."

She doesn't answer with words. Instead, she leans forward, her breath warm against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, her lips brushing a trail of open-mouthed kisses up toward where you're already hard and waiting. Her tongue flicks out, tasting the salt on your skin, and she sighs as if savoring a fine wine. "Mmm... you taste like the tension before a storm." Her hands grip your hips, holding you steady, and she looks up one last time, her slit-pupiled eyes half-lidded with hunger. "I'm going to take you apart, little flame. Slowly. Until you forget there's a world beyond this box."