Hex

It’s...it’s so cold…

That was her only thought, the only thing that pulsed with her. Has it always been this cold? Has she always been this cold? Why couldn’t she move? Why did the inside of her mouth taste metallic, as though filled with melted copper? Why couldn’t she open her eyes? She couldn’t feel anything, much less move her limbs. What happened to me?

She tried to remember; yet even shifting through her memories were almost painful--as if exerting too much pressure. Even so, however…

She recalled it. 

She recalled her heart racing. She recalled taking the precious jewels and gold from her family’s safe. She recalled fishing her mother’s wedding dress from the budoir, sliding it onto her body with ease. 

She recalled a man she was meant to meet under the cover of night, whispered promises of running away together to marry because her father refused to let her marry the love of her life. 

The love of her life.

Rage thudded to life, flowing through her veins like blood. She choked on it, her eyes finally opening, for her to finally see.

Her wail howled amidst the wind, high to the full moon hanging above. It was no wonder she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, why everything was so cold! Her hazel eyes barely able to fill with tears of her fury as she took in her own body, beginning to decay in the wee hours. She recalled his face within the split second of darkness overcoming her and betrayal rattled her core. He had done this; he brutally took her life and ran off with the jewels and gold packed in the satchel that he explicitly said she should have on her person when they met in the woods, by the great oak tree. 

He killed her for her money. 

She pressed a palm against the tree trunk, sinking to her knees. She swore silently before that great oak, vowing that she will not arise from its feet until her love--her true love--arrived to set her free in holy matrimony. 

    Exquisite.

    That was the word that continued to echo deep into the crevices of his blackened soul as he breathed her in. Her scent, floral and soft, permeated through the room, mixing with the heavy scent of pure need. He found that he didn’t mind the scent, that it didn’t agitate him as it would have. 

Because she existed in the same world, the same dark den where many like her--many before her--were just pieces hanging in the galleries of those who owned them. This girl was a precious piece of her family’s gallery, to be given to him. He all but knew how she was valued, cherished, preserved and he longed to treasure the purity of such a masterpiece, to own her.

His fingers stroked against subtle dips and flaring curves, her soft flesh so beautifully unmarred that his breath caught. Each caress elicited a breathy sigh from soft, pink lips that chipped away at his composure, his control. Her half-lidded eyes, glazed over and earthy, gazed up at him; cheeks were flushed a sweetly pink, a flush that spread across alabaster skin the more he explored her. His fingers were replaced by his lips and curious tongue, painting kisses to this wonderfully pliant canvas. 

His name dripped with honey off of her tongue, his control slipping further from his grasp as his lips ghosted along her inner thigh, parting those slender legs to expose more behind the masterpiece that lay in his bed. A living sculpture that matched him in cunning, wit, intelligence who purred at his every touch, writhed sensually among his sheets, who whispered his name as though it were a prayer to a god.

Yet she had no idea how much he worshipped her.

When his lips drew close to devour her flower, the nectar that touched the tip of his tongue nearly drove him to the edge. A sharp exhalation left her lips and he could feel her delicate fingers tangle in his hair and he couldn’t restrain himself; a groan reverberated from his throat, vibrating against the delicate sweetness he couldn’t stop himself from feasting. He desired her, cherished her, adored her, worshipped her; she was everything and more and despite that she was absolutely perfect before his hands bared her delicious flesh his eyes, he had to paint her. 

He had to paint that succulent body with his kiss, with his tongue. He had to have this masterpiece bear the fruits of his actions. He had to have her wholly, to have her know only of him, where the only word spoken from those delectable lips was his name. It was that need burning within him that he pulled away from her center--only to line himself to push slowly into her waiting body. 

How she took him so sweetly, how the pleasure was so beautiful on her face when he touched the deepest part of her. Her sheath was perfect for him, gripping him hotly, as he began the slow torture, his lips against hers in a series of messy kisses and shared breathing. And every time he pushed deeper within her, her body singing with the pleasure only he could give her, he only grew addicted--a man obsessed. This dance between them was nothing short of pure artistry and he could only behold the masterpiece that was her for so long before he lost himself to pleasure. 

Her fingers painted pain on his back, feeling the powerful muscles work as their bodies rocked in harmony, as the whimper of his name on her tongue only spurred him. She was his and always was, always will be, from the very first moment they met; she was his addiction, his need for her a drug where only her presence, her everything, was the cure. He could not relinquish her now, and he never will. 

He pulls her upright with him so that her body was tightly pressed against his, still joined below as she straddled his lap, their pace unbroken. His fingers gripped the rich, chocolate strands of her hair, angling her head to bare her neck. His lips littered kisses and bites, suckling on the column of flesh to mark her, as her hips continued to roll against his. Arms banding around her, he breathed in her scent once more, hips thrusting upward to meet hers and he couldn’t stop her name leaving his throat. Their dance only grew more passionate, raw, even as her lips found his shoulder to leave a mark of her own--unseen by anyone else except them. 

His fingers dug into her back, into the flower petals tattooed on her skin, etched into his memory as her body arched against his. Their passion mirrored in each other, their hips pressed together tightly, his lips against her shoulder as they reached nirvana. Their shared release was a high unlike something he’s never experienced before, ripping a rough “Fuck” from his throat as he emptied within her, painting her velvet sheath white. 

Bodies limp and slick with sweat, he collapsed on his back, holding her close. She was the only one, the absolute only one, he would ever touch like this; would ever make raw, passionate love to; to remain sealed within her. She lay her head against his chest, listening to his heart pounding behind the protective cage of his ribs as his hands painted invisible patterns on her soft skin. 

“I love you,” she whispered breathily, those three words sacred, binding. He was a devil unworthy of those words spoken by the beauty basking in the glow of their passion; and yet, he whispered them back to his beloved angel as they caught their breaths, exhaustion seeping through their bodies. He was fading away blissfully into slumber, her warmth a gloriously pure constant in his life now.