prompt: intemperate

She raked her nails down his sides, laughing wildly and tossing her hair back over her shoulders. She sat back on her heels, surveying her prey; drinking in the sight of him. His wide and frightened eyes begged her silently, pleading for her mercy, but there was no having it. She was insatiable. Her intemperate spirit was pulling the life out of him, one poke at a time, one pinch at a time, one agonizing drag of steel at a time. He struggled against his bonds for as long as he could, but eventually he would succumb to her ministrations and his eyes would close. Her fiery thirst would then be quenched, if only for a moment.