She loves him. She knows it as well as she knows that he loves her. He's proved it countless times without his intending to or her asking him to. It has caught them both by surprise, this love, and neither of them seems quite sure what to do.
She had doubted it would ever come to her, this feeling. Oh she's loved others, but never with giddiness and longing, with aching in places she did not know love could make her ache. She understands at last the concept of "lovesickness" which previously has been so foreign to her, understands that this weakness could easily infect a person's will. Her will.
She is a warrior. Something in her perceives this love as a potential danger and stands poised to sever that which might weaken her, destroy her. No one storms her inner keep, yet she stands guard over it. Her lover raids her treasure room and takes that which is freely given, leaving behind both more of himself and taking with him pieces of her heart. She wishes to submit to her feelings, to him, to the golden experience of loving and being loved, and she does--when they are together. It is when they are apart that the doubts rise, and the warrior, carelessly dismissed, resumes her watch over the treasure trove.
When he comes to her, she does not know how to act. Like any woman she considers playing the emotional games, considers baffling him with changes in mood and behavior, considers punishing him for making him love her in any one of the countless tiny ways that women have in their arsenal of punishments. But she does not. They have loved each other long enough and true enough that when he comes to her she stands naked before him and responds from her heart. Anything less would be unworthy of them both.
When he comes to her, any thoughts of artifice fade like mist before the sun. He is her sun, her moon, her stars--and her crown of thorns. She tells him so. Tells him as he slips into her from behind, his thickness opening her, stretching her, making her flesh sting. He savours her wince, the catch of her breath, and the long low moan of pleasure. She knows this by the slowness of his pace, and by the sound he makes, the sound every woman knows in her primal self, for it is the sound a man makes when he is conquering a woman with the subtle violence of penetration. There will be blood, she thinks, and this thought fills her with satisfaction, the satisfaction of a woman anticipating the feeling of being well-used.
He is a musician and she is his instrument. She feels this as her body lengthens and arches, as her leg flows back to hug his upper thighs and his fingers strum her core. Her body vibrates with it, vibrates against his chest and belly, vibrates under the palm of his hand rocking against the peg of her clit. She hears the smile in his voice as he urges her to climax and she does, voluptuously and without restraint, her voice raised in noisy song.
He moves out of her and presses his slickened hardness against another opening. She moans again, her body moving in supplication to his desire. His push through that forbidden portal draws from them both a gasp, and she knows again what it is to love and to submit all that she is to love. She wonders, as he presses hard against her, as he forces himself into her as deep as he can go, if he knows how he devastates her with each thrust, how even the pain of it is turned upon itself to become pleasure, his pleasure, her pleasure, until the violence of his penetration and her opening to it becomes a doorway to spiritual oneness. His fingers slide between her thighs and again she opens them to him. He strums her again, fine-tuning the sexual energy, and then his fingers dive into her, into that awe-inspiring warm wetness, filling her to the point where pleasure meets pain, and she flings herself into him, battering herself against the fingers and the cock that cleave her, wondering if she dare pass through that portal of intimacy, wondering if he will meet her there, on the other side...
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