When I entered her, I almost lost control. It had been a long time for her, but not nearly as long as it had been for me. Her long, low moan was the most beautiful sound I could ever remember hearing.
I had wanted her for months, and I had taken those feelings, locked them away, secreted them inside a dark corner of my heart that only I could access. I tortured myself with them late at night in the room she'd furnished for me. I'd listen through the wall to her as she hummed a song, the soft turn of pages as she read a book, or the creak of the bed frame when she tossed and turned in the middle of the night. She had trouble sleeping. We both did.
When she had a nightmare, she'd come into my room and crawl into my bed next to me. Proximity made everything worse – she was there, warm and so soft, curled up against me, and I would not allow myself to touch her unless she asked me to. I promised myself that I wouldn't make the first move, if there would ever be one. If something happened, it had to be her choice, her decision.
She did not want me, I thought. She could not want me. She was so fragile, so broken, that she didn't trust herself around anyone else, save me – a soldier, a killer, a ghoul. She told me that, once. That she trusted me. That I was the only one who had never hurt her. Her admission meant more to me than anything had ever meant before. I would have done anything to avoid breaking that trust. Our bond.
It was a hot summer night, and she'd stripped down to her underthings. She was still sweating. Even for that time of year, it was unseasonably warm. Even with her skill as a marksman and a tactician, she was still clumsy at home. She'd knocked a coffee cup off the bookcase, and it'd broken. I retrieved the broom and dustpan for her as she picked up the larger pieces, nesting them inside of each other. When I got close to her, I froze, transfixed.
I saw the beads of sweat on her forehead. The light hairs escaping from her quick ponytail stuck to her cheek. Her face was flushed, maybe from the heat, maybe a light sunburn from the time we spent outside today. Her lips curved gently upward in a soft smile, her bright blue eyes crinkling at the edges as she reached out to take the broom from my hand. Her thin tank top was drenched with sweat, sticking to the rich curve of her full breasts. It was then that I broke my promise to myself; all the feelings that I'd held inside came gushing out, an eruption of want, need, desire.
I dropped the dustpan, pushed the broom aside. I took her face in my hands and kissed her. I thought she'd back away, frightened, push me away, and for one kiss I was willing to pay the price of alienation. The pain of holding it all in; the struggle had suddenly become too much for me to bear. To my surprise, she responded in earnest, softening to my touch. She gripped my waist, pulled me closer to her, as if she craved the feeling of my body against hers. Then she broke away from me, breathless. She took my hand and slowly led me up the stairs to her room. She pulled out the tie in her hair and tossed her head, her golden tresses cascading over her strong, muscular shoulders. She peeled off her clothes, and stripped bare, she slowly removed mine. She spoke not a word.
At any moment, I expected her to balk, to stop, to run from me afraid or crying. But she didn't. I wondered, briefly, how long she'd known that I wanted her, and how long she'd wanted me. I realized that we'd been protecting each other, side by side, for far too long for there to be any secrets between us. I'd treated her wounds, held her as she cried, soothed her through nightmares. There was an intimacy we shared, even though we didn't acknowledge it until then. Something deep and beautiful.
She lay down on the bed, and guided me with her. Once between her taut, firm legs, I hesitated. Then she smiled up at me, eyes half-open, lips parted in a silent sigh. She pulled me in to her, wordlessly urged me inside her with a gentle tug.
The feeling is hard to describe. When I eased into her, it felt like we fit together, like a hand in a glove. No – more like how a knife fits inside a sheath…like we were made for each other. As I filled her over and over again, those beautiful sounds came from deep within her. Her head fell back, her legs wrapped around my waist and her hips moved with mine, a slow, graceful rhythm.
I reveled in the softness of her skin, the silkiness of her golden hair, darkened and damp with perspiration. Her smooth pliant lips yielded to my rough dry ones, her tongue darted into my mouth, searching out mine. She whimpered, moaned into my mouth. Her soft breasts pushed up against my chest, her dusky brown nipples wrinkled; hard. She smelled like sweat, like the dust of the wasteland, like the leather she wore. There was something else there, though, something that every man knows but can't describe. She smelled so, so female. It was… intoxicating. It drove me wild.
In that moment, it felt like all that existed was me, her, the quiet creaking of the bed frame, and the slow burn deep inside us, the primal energy forcing us together, sweeping us away. I was so enraptured that I almost didn't hear her speak. "Charon," she whispered. She'd said my name. She wanted me, and no one else. Then she looked at me, her eyes an ocean of love, of passion. I fell. I drowned in them.
She started to pant, to gasp, rubbing against me insistently. Her short, blunt nails dug into my back, her hips moved faster, and she pulled, urging me deeper. The inside of her, wet and tight and strong, squeezed me rhythmically, and I couldn't help it when my own deep moans escaped my lips.
She stiffened under me, shuddered, an unbridled wail erupting from her tender throat. The inside of her squeezed me so tightly that for a moment, it was all that I could feel, until something inside me burst, and I released myself into her with a loud, deep, primal grunt more suited to an animal than a man.
We held each other until we fell asleep.
She is gone. Has been, for a long time. We spent many happy years together, but it is this memory that I cherish most. The first time we made love. The first time that I felt like I wasn't alone.
This memory is my most prized possession - a memory of something that did not have to be taken; a precious gift we shared with each other. My shotgun, my armor, and even the clothes on my back are of little value compared to this. Those things, by contract, have never been mine anyway. But her, that night, what we shared – that is something that cannot be taken away from me, ever. It is truly mine.