She is fire. He is ice.
Her smile warms his own little world
That he has shut out everyone.
But her light and her warmth seep through
the cracks of his door.

With one flick of her flame,
he gives her the key,
and she steps into his dark den
glowing, making him perspire
and thirst for her scent, her touch
and her laughter that tickles
even his sleepy bones.

She is fire. He is ice.
He melts into her embrace
like a tired warrior longing for rest,
taking off his heavy armour
and dusting off his sandals
at his own door --
attended to by a pair of hands
that perfectly knead his every ache.

Tonight, she is the fire
that he needs in his freezing bed.
The helmet is gone,
so she twirls her fingers
around the locks of his auburn hair.
He savours how her fingers trail
on the bruises of his bearded chin.
Eyes linger on his face, still.
Then he hears her whisper,
"We are in your sacred space."

The armour is off his chest,
so she starts kissing his battle scars.
Soft moans fill the air
as she sets his body ablaze.
Her glowing hips are pulsing,
gyrating, swaying in a fiery dance
right there on the hard steel
between his legs.

She is fire. He is ice.
She blows his mind with a delightful surprise.
And so he ravished her molten center
like no other.
She gives off all her heat
as she screams.
He melts and melts and melts.
At the highest tempo together,
with chests heaving,
catching some air,
fire engulfed ice
in that sacred space --
with much grunting
bursting into a heavy flow
like untamed waters.