He reminds her of the fairytales she was told as a child, stories of golden-haired princesses, conniving, evil stepmothers and dashing, dreamy princes.
He is no prince though, god no, he could have been more likely the villain in the story. But strangely, when she first saw him, she was reminded of Snow White.
His skin is white as snow, almost translucent and shimmers in the moonlight like ripples of water. It's cold as ice too, even when her hands caress his skin in fevered touches, his body sliding over hers as the scars she would leave on his back instantly healed.
His lips are red as blood and tastes like it as well, the remnants of his past victims, staining his mouth with a metallic taste, reminding her of what and who he was. And hours later, the taste would still be left in her mouth, a bitter tang left of what they had done.
His hair is black as ebony and soft as silk as she runs he fingers through the curls, begging him to make her come. RaphaelRaphaelRaphael, the mantra from her lips as he brought her to euphoria.
He is not the prince and she is not the princess. But he isn't the villain either, he's more of a passerby in the story, nothing of consequence whatsoever.
So when she wakes up in the morning and finds the bed empty, she isn't surprised and merely looks out the window watching the rays of sunlight melt the snow.
I wrote this in under twenty minutes, I don't know what came over me really but creativity is creativity. And from what I know, I might be the first person to write these two. So hazzah! for that.