Addicted
How many times had he saved her? How many times had he felt the rush of death, the sense that nothing else could ever give him, no matter how hard he tried.
He first felt it when she reached for him, as she stood gasping for breath, the blood filling her lungs. He felt it again by his own free will, when he had fought to bring her back.
A hundred times had come and gone since then.
He was addicted.
That poison skin that all were afraid to touch.
All but him.
The forbidden nature of it just made it that much sweeter.
She could offer him what no one else could.
she could offer him what he secretly craved, but could never have.
A dance with death.
He saw her from across the room, sweet, deadly poison sheathed beneath her gloves. The way she smelled, the way she would taste. It drove him crazy with want.
He'd find any excuse he could, any slight injury he could heal, an excuse to kiss her, hold her.
Drink her in, as she drank him.
She sat across from him dunking cookies in milk as a late night snack. He tried to pay attention to her, what she was saying, but all he wanted was another chance.
Another dance.
"Dance with me".
Before he knew what he was doing, he grabbed her bare arm, pulling her toward him, even as his life drifted away.
Let it drift.
He wanted more.
He kissed her hard, feeling the pull strengthen and deepen.
He wanted more.
He wanted it all.
He finally collapsed on the floor, a satisfied smile on his face.
He was addicted.
When you couldn't die, when you were immortal, indestructible, you kept looking for new and bigger highs.
It didn't get much bigger than this.
It was a dangerous game, but it was one they would continue to play.
She was desperate for the contact, he was the only one who wasn't afraid to touch her.
She watched over him until he regained consciousness.
"Not enough? Have to try harder next time".
She was in tears.
It was a dangerous game they played.
He was addicted.
He was addicted to death.
He was addicted to her.