Greetings dear reader! I'm cleaning out my cyber-house before I leave for vacation. Thus there shall be a few drabbles popping up this weekend...
Relucesco
It is precisely this sort of situation for which Mossad had invested hard years and sweat in training her to withstand. Face down, the view of the world becomes a blur of lessons and wants, a position typically unsettling. But if she cranes her head far enough to the left, peripheral vision will capture the criminal inflicting his trade upon her body. Hands inch toward the tender base of her neck but she fears not their intended destination, does not flinch as strong fingers contract to bunch her skin in purposed pressure. Twice before she has been choked by a man and neither had been a profound experience. But in this breach of decency, he'll be the death of her.
But she'll die in opulence.
In the grip of sinful luxury, she's drifting with open eyes. The mattress sways slightly as he works, a rippling rhythm to which she involuntarily times the stifled moans. His hands force her flesh into retreat, muscles obeying his command to loosen, to relax. Both determinedly firm and whisper gentle, what the long days have set into rigidity are unknotted methodically. Before she knew the rapture contained within his hands, she'd have never believed him capable of such selflessness. He'd done this once before, massaging away the clenching ache while the elegant birds of prance twittered in approval. He'd made her safe, treasured and she'd sunk into a dreamless sleep.
It's the sole reason they hadn't…
Dragging herself back into wakefulness, her senses are made to heed all that engulfs them. Picks up his clean scent, listens to her own breathing, feels her pulse hasten when his touch moves just there and sees the very edge of a man riveted by what she's allowed him to do. What she's begged him to do. And when his lips brush what clever hands have remolded, taking liberties for which she owns no energy to scold, the moans become less an expression than an invitation. Despite several languages at the ready, she cannot summon a single word. Doesn't need to, not when he can translate the nonsensical noises so well.
Exposure is the surest sign of trust.
Immeasurable time has passed since she has been naked before another's eyes, shamed into cloaking the scars now blazing in a vulnerable display. He sees all of it and nothing and she suspects his imagination has supplied a far worse rendering. Her beauty, he tells her as one hand drifts low along her spine, makes him forget. Other women, other lies, other wants. With fingers etching patterns at her hip, painting gratitude for her resilience, the other hand abandons her shoulder and follows rapt lips down. Seeks entrance at the apex and is rewarded. She remains on her stomach, granting him control and not mourning her loss.
He will not disappoint.
It is exactly this kind of prediction against which Mossad had labored with empty years and blood to warn her. They speed toward reckless dependence. His body unlocks hers in a way that suggests this is not a means to a fleeting end, but an end to a shambled beginning. What had been forged in secret is exposed, all that had been staunchly buried is uncovered and every mask donned in fear is shattered. The collision of bodies, sweetly undertaken but disintegrating into chaos, will not change them. It's not meant to. It will, however, bend the world around them to fit their accord. They needn't escape to Paris to cast aside old repressions.
Love is better at home.
Relucescoto = (Latin) To become bright again