Three Sentence Ficathon

“Have I not told you to never give me orders?” Vasya said, rolling them over so that she sat astride him, the tips of her hair brushing against his chest; she trailed her forefinger over the strong planes of his face, enjoying how his eyes lidded at the mere touch of her fingertip, enjoying the control she had over him, the frost-demon she had broken like a young foal with her stubbornness, who suffered her demands and bent to her will.

“Perhaps,” he murmured as her finger brushed over his lips, tracing the curve of his mouth, “but I think I require a reminder of why I shouldn’t,” he said with a smile, his cool gaze drifting over her form in fond appreciation, as she shifted to straddle his hips, her legs tight around him.

Leaning forward, her hot skin pressed against his cool chest, she whispered, “Because it is I who gives the orders, Karachun,” and she pinned his shoulders with her hands and took him into the heat of her.