Disclaimer: No money is being made off of this, I don't own the characters.
Warning: This story contains adult themes and sexual situations. You have been warned.
His Mistress Born of Demons
The moon hung low over the endless sea of the desert, the sand turning to silver beneath its light. The wind howled through the cracks and hollows of the ruined city, wailing like the lost dead. Shadows leapt and danced across the empty streets, shutters rattled like skeletons. A dog yowled, frightened by the skittering of dust and sand in an alleyway. Somewhere a child was crying. Beneath the full cold moon the city slept uneasily.
The candlelight was dying. The scarred man lay on his back on a hard pallet, sheltered from the wind by a low wall of crumbling stone. His eyes were heavy and his limbs ached, but he refused to sleep. If he were to sleep, to turn himself over to the hand of dreams, she would come.
She danced through his dreams like a demon, her skin as white as a moonbeam and her eyes like fire. It was not the woman of his brother whom he saw while caught in the cage of dreaming, but the woman of sin. She came to him while sleeping, the mark on her chest taunting him even as she placed his hands upon her flesh.
In his dreams, she burned. Her skin was like fire, searing him when he touched her. And he touched her. He held her to him, even as she burned, her hair like silk on his naked skin. He made love to her, feeling her body writhe and leap beneath his each night. She was without flaw. Her body was a temple of pleasure and passion, an alter for the unholiest of worship. She was every man's desire made flesh.
She tormented him. Her fingers drew patterns on his skin, her lips breathed prayers against his flesh. She pleasured him with her hands, her mouth, her body. She was his sin and he embraced her like a lover, his mistress of iniquity. He damned himself in her arms each night, lost to his fantasies in the realms of slumber.
He did not know what name he called her in these dreams. What ever it was he breathed into her ear at the peak of his passion he could not recall upon waking. But it was not the name of his brother's wife, that much he knew. She was not that woman.
He would not give in to her this night. Her face already haunted him in waking hours, vulpine and alluring. His hands ached for her. His body rose to the thought of her. She was the ultimate sin, a tribute to immorality, a demon among women. She was a creature of forbidden trespass, laughing in the face of God with her very existence. And yet he wanted her.
He wanted her in ways that pained him. The night was cold but his body sweated, his dreams coming to him even as he lay awake. If she came to him, he would not turn her away. He would welcome her to his bed and give himself willingly to sin. She would be his damnation and his salvation. If she would have him.
Under the pale light of the full moon, he dreamed of her without sleeping. And even then she was flawless, a pale marble perfection of womanhood. But her skin! In life, her skin was cold.
He would warm her until it burned.