She kisses him harshly. Marks him with her teeth, with her tongue. He doesn’t stop her. Instead he worships her, softly, lovingly. Becomes clay she can manipulate and mold under warm hands. Following her lead like a loyal dog.
(Ha. And she didn’t even have to train him. All she had to do was look his way, her too lovely smile beckoning him.
All she had to do was say his name, and he’d come running.)
Her breath is smoke and iron and fire. A drug threatening to consume him, burn through his veins and leave him emptier than he started. He doesn’t blame her, it’s his addiction, not hers. She’d warned him. Warned of the heat and the pressure and the siren call of her voice, her lips, her body.
(He’s left wondering if love is supposed to be like this. Consuming heat and a suffocating hold on his heart. A too hot hand curling around that vital organ in his ribcage. He wonders if it’s just him who feels this way. If he’s the strange one.)
He wonders about a lot of things when his cheeks and ears are stained crimson, eyes wide and hazy, chest heaving. Then stops caring when she looks back at him in pleasure. Purred praises falling from those plump perfect lips — his concerns don’t matter. Worry doesn’t exist here, in this warm wonderful place where they breathe the same air, tinged with her gentle scent. Where her hands never leave him, trailing lines of fire that leave him writhing. Leave him pressing back, gasping for more.
She never leaves him wanting in these moments.
(He wonders if she knows about the hold she has on him. Knows that nothing is more important than her to him.
And then that tidal wave of fear, of loathing, of helplessness that threatens to drown him — mingling with her lingering heat, her promise of tomorrow, those little things that are the only protection he has. If she leaves for good — he doesn’t think he’ll ever make it back to dry land.)
But forever isn’t something she can give him. She has a life beyond these precious moments. It doesn’t matter how much they both enjoy their time together, it doesn’t matter how many marks he leaves, or how tired he makes her, drawing out their nightly meetings just a little longer each time. He could declare her his goddess with every breath, and she would still leave.
He learns to hate the sun. That ball of light that beckons her to slips from his arms. Calls her to cover that perfect canvas skin, to turn her back on him and walk away. And always, always her words are all that keeps him from running after her, tripping her feet and dragging her back to the cooling memory of the night.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”
(She is too perfect to cage. His burning lover. Too full of life, of wicked ideas, always brimming with energy. He may live for her, but she lives for more than him. He understands, he may not like it, but he understands. She is better than him, and he is content with what she gives. He has to be.)
And he always answers the same; rising with her, pressing one final kiss to tide him over till nightfall, and says;
“Of course. I’ll be here.” Always.
And she’ll smile, brighter than that terrible star in the sky, and flee. Called to work, to the life of the day. To the people that aren’t him. For his lover loves the world, and who was he to deny her?