A Knight to Kill Me: 50 Kranna Moments
By Secondhand Soul
"Spiral"
It had been a long day, impossibly so, a day in which Kratos wanted to do nothing more than simply fall into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He would not even take off his shoes, nor his cape, oblivious to the world about him, to even Irving and her incessant talk about her plans to help liberate this city from total fear of the Desians.
He didn't want to hear it, did not want to think about what she planned, about what idiocy he had agreed to, had been dragged into. No, right now that was not his concern. He would stall his slow descent into madness for a few hours of sleep before she woke him with some new complaint about the influential men of the city.
He had to admit that her spirit was inspiring. Not many were as vibrant as Irving, so filled with an idealistic fire that was determined to burn through all opposition. She was so bright that the light even touched her eyes, relentlessly and continuously continuing to glow, enough to influence even someone as set in their ways as he was.
Yes, there was something to admire of her, but the vast majority of the time he found her to be extremely grating, a strain on his nerves and on their finances, what, with her constant scheming.
So it was that he dragged himself up the stairs to their second floor room in one of the cleaner and more respectable, but still relatively cheap, inns of greater Palmacosta. He was dead to the world already, in his own eyes, dead to any stimulation, unaware as he opened the door that his plans were destined to be thwarted.
He could hear splashing from the adjoining room and because his mind was muddled did not really connect the noise with bathing for some reason or another. Dumbly, he walked toward the slightly ajar door and peered in, pulling himself away nearly as quickly, blood rushing from his face.
It had not been a terrible sight, though it had been scarring, the image seared into his mind so bright and white hot that he would not be able to ever erase it from his memory.
In his mind's eye, Kratos could still picture her, the curve of her back, the way that water had dripped from her breasts as she stood, drenched. And he could only imagine her then, soaked in sweat, underneath him, their bodies ignited in passion … It made him shiver, his mind spiraling out of control as he imagined their coupling, and, to his great shame, discovered that the thought … pleased him.
In more than a carnal way, it pleased him.
He wanted her not only for the sight of her thighs quivering beneath him, for the feeling of her insides convulsing around him as he drove himself into her body, but because her blazing spirit would match his own intensity. Because she could be for him what a person he had only just met could not be – The idea of being with her appealed so much to him because, on some level, he respected her.
The downward spiral continued.
He imagined the ghost of her on his lips, the way her green eyes would glint with amusement and challenge, how her mouth would be as demanding as his own was. A partner who would be his sexual equal because she was his equal in other ways, a woman who would not be dominated as if she were some withering wallflower … Irving commanded respect, and he was sure the bedroom was no exception.
Kratos fell hard through the glass roof of his own carefully constructed illusion, rendering the distance he'd placed between them useless. Irving was a woman, an attractive woman whose cries he would like to hear as he sucked and licked her breasts, as he touched her, claimed her.
A noise distracted him somewhat from his thoughts, and his dark eyes darted upward to see her leaning against the doorframe of the washroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel. There was a grin on her attractive face, and she laughed at him, taking a step forward. Her face said it all; the expression in the depth of her eyes, and Kratos knew that she had seen him look in on her.
He swallowed thickly, trying to tell his twitching fingers that no, he could not go over there and rip that towel off of her, drag her to the bed, and rub himself against her just to feel the friction.
Kratos' thoughts spiraled further away from him still, and some rational part of him commented that things could never be repaired if they passed this point, that nothing would be the same again. The other part of him, the part that was dominant right now, might have lost the argument had Anna not opened her mouth to speak.
"You look upset, Kratos," she said in a sultry tone, teasingly; she was egging him on, and he realized with a thrill that this was an attempt at seduction.
She dropped the towel.
Kratos rose from the bed, even as he spiraled into the ground.
At one she was in his arms, their lips locked just as he had imagined as he dragged her naked body towards the bed. Everything was just as he had imagined, save that her fervor burned even more hotly than he'd anticipated, and that his own sensation reached up to wrap about and overwhelm him.
She burned him, but he let himself be consumed by her, not minding in the slightest. Her fingers stripped him, stripped him until there was nothing left to protect him from that heat, the heat of her body fueled by her unshakeable will.
Together they spiraled out of control.