Adamion moves like pyre smoke behind Fern.  He is close enough to feel as a blade of tension, pressed to her back.  A deep, grim heat emanates from him; he is all weightless movements and heavy menace.<br/><br/>A single finger raises from his lean hand.  It moves to set itself on the right edge of Fern's chin.  It holds there - poised, delicate, deadly.  She knows that to resist it is to disobey, to disobey is to invite disaster.  He might as well have a razor against a seam of her spine.<br/><br/>His voice washes with a fine, dry exhalation through her hair.<br/><br/><strong>"Hold still."</strong><br/><br/>His other hand brings a phial around, keeping it lifted above Fern's breasts.  A turn of his thumb, and its glass chamber opens.  Fluid, bright as a potion and limpid as glacier water, pours down in an aromatic simmer onto her chest.  The smell of it is like a nectarine, touched with a clean citrus hint.  It splashes, bath water warm, onto the tip of one breast, drenching the nipple with its faintly tingling rush.<br/><br/>At the movement of Adamion's hand, the liquid continues to pour.  It runs over the height of her breast, trickling down in lean and scintillating lines, then spatters across the next breast.  Soon Fern's other teat is doused, cringing with excitement under the beat of the fluid and its thrilling cling.  Drops slide down the firm bulbs of her chest to cluster at the nipples, beading the rim of the aureole and dripping from the tip.<br/><br/>A final turn of his hand brings its last rivulets to splash on her lower belly.  They worm there, pooling a moment on the panting plane of Fern's tummy, then slide in a flock of thin fingers to bring that tingling fluid to fill her sex's tense divide.<br/><br/>Adamion removes the vial.  He keeps his finger on Fern's chin, making her look forward.  His command comes as no surprise to the blooming beats that rush through her sensitive flesh as it swells and tightens.<br/><br/><strong>"Make her lick.  She must take all of it from you."</strong>