Moonlight
The moon was full that night, filling the sky with her pale, swollen face, radiating down pallid, glowing light. The air felt so much colder after he lifted his body from mine, the sweat against my skin already cooled enough to raise goosebumps.
In the faint illumination, I can make out his silhouette as he rises to his feet and begins to reach for his clothes. In moments like this, I am reminded of the cat he represents. He is a lithe figure moving with natural feline grace, muscles ripping beneath tawny skin, the moonlight bringing out the coppery highlights in his fiery hair. He's beautiful, and I cannot help myself from realizing this every time.
As I have a thousand times before I mentally chide myself. And yet again, it is of their own accord that as he bends over to pull on his pants, my eyes lock on that male part of him jutting proudly between his thighs. I am struck by a tactile memory, recalling the perfect how it felt to have him against me, inside me. I shudder with the memory and swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat, licking my lips. As if in response to my thoughts, he turns and looks at me, his shirt still tangling from one hand. I stare at his hands for a moment, his large, strong hands, and I imagine the bruises that will replace the pain in arms and hips.
He looks at me, vermillion eyes full of some unspoken emotion, dark and unreadable as he gazes unflinchingly in my direction. It takes an effort not flush under his scrutiny. Especially as I realize how ridiculous I must seem, lying naked, in the soft patch of grass- where only moments before our bodies had entwined in a desperate and frenzied couple- watching him dress.
He turns away a moment later, shaking his head in a firm affirmation of something only he knew, and he pulls on his shirt, nonchalantly throwing me my clothing.
"Well," he says as he regards me in an indifferent frown, "What are you waiting for?"
I scramble to my feet, throw on my clothes, and hurry after him as he stalks toward the house. I watch his back as he moves with that irresistible fluid grace, and before I can stop it, my mouth forms the words, "Is it always going to be this way with you? Fighting or sex?"
He stops, glancing back at me over his shoulder, and his lips curl into a sardonic smirk. "Would you have it any other way?"
I thought of Honda-san, and her sweetly innocent smiles, her perpetual naïveté, her unwavering acceptance of both me and the rest of the family. I think of Kyou, and the teasing smiles he casts in her direction, the love in his eyes he can never fully hide.
I think of our fights, the clawing, hitting, kicking, biting that culminated teat night into his lips over mine in a bruising kiss. Him levering over me, moving inside of me before I could even think to protest, the agonizing mixture of pleasure and pain. I think of the dozen times this has happened before. I think of his touch, how incredible his smooth skin feels beneath my fingers. The strange look he gents in those times when he stares down at me in the pinnacle of climax, something I might delude myself as being almost tender.
I think of the way it is my name that spills from his lips, and not hers, I think of the strange feeling that well up inside of me when I'm with him like this. I try not to think of the fact that I stopped hating him long ago, and started feeling something different.
I think of Honda-san, and the man she could make of Kyou.
I reluctantly follow as he starts toward the house, smiling faintly despite the pain it causes my spilt lips. "No," I whisper to his back, "I wouldn't have it any other way."