Lust
[[ Luxuria ]]
Excessive thought's or desires of a sexual nature
…
It had always been there.
The pure primal urge that only one thing could make a man suddenly cheat on his wife with. Make his neck turn in the opposite direction as the road he was driving down. Make him suddenly believe that there were cracks in his already existing relationship. Make him want to stray from the path of faithfulness, the path of comfortable love, to the dark un-trekked path of debauchery, to the moss covered stone ground, through the overhanging dead trees, all the way into her bed.
In the world of beasts, it was the female. The bitch.
In the world of man, it was the woman. The temptress.
In the small reservation of LaPush, it was Leah. The she-wolf.
Every single male shifter had thoughts about her. Deep in the rivers of their darkest fantasies. Deep in their thoughts, tucked safely under the love of their partners. Deep in the still of the night, where not even the moon shines. Where everything is still. There is no wind, no birds, no slight hindrance of a breaking dawn. No. There was nothing. Nothing but her.
Leah.
Nothing but her curvaceous body.
Her bronzed skin and the way things just seemed to illuminate from it. Water. Sweat. And even sand. The black sand from First Beach seemed to even sparkle. Many thought it impossible until it was damp against her skin, running through her slender fingers, splayed across her torso. It shone. Like diamonds.
The freckles splattered across her straight nose were as if Michael Angelo himself, flicked his paint brush at her direction, admiring the pure ecstasy only a woman's form could bring. Her form. The form they'd all wished was wrapped tightly against them at night. Pressing against their chest and only their taught muscled chest. The chest of a male wolf.
There was nothing but her long straight hair. It's colour darker than blood, blacker than the forest during an eclipse. The way it would effortlessly tousle in the wind only to return to its exact location, brushing close to her slender neck and squared out shoulders.
Her lips, the way they cushioned against each other, like pillows. Soft as silk and as smooth as the lips of a mandarin. The way they smacked together when she was satisfied, pulled tight when she was annoyed or pouty when she was upset. The sheen berry colouring that seemed to make them appear moist and welcoming.
She was, perfection. With a body and face decorated by tiny angels, graced down straight from the heavens, perhaps made in Aphrodite's image herself, a gift from the ancient Greek Gods, given to the people of LaPush to admire. To admire but never touch. The untouchable peak. Mount Olympus itself. The Himalayans to the Tibetan people.
Each shifter male had their own secret glances over her body. Each soaking in the smooth curves, the wicked movements, the un-spoken and soundless dance her body seemed to make as she walked. The took it all in. And they all itched to hum its notes.
The way Paul would discreetly stare at the straining ribbed nipples under her cotton top as she scowled at Sam, with her arms crossed, pressing them impossibly higher.
The way Jared fluttered an eye open, the nanosecond just before she'd phase to catch the shimmering beauty of her change.
The way Embry sat across from the couch and stared at her long legs, his eyes running for miles over the toned shape of her calves and thighs, wishing it was him sitting under them, stroking them lovingly.
The way Sam imagined his tiny son, Immanuel, suckling upon her perfect breast as she looked down adoringly at the child, instead of his Emily.
The way Jacob watched her laugh and then threaten Seth with death as she clung to his back for a piggy back ride at the beach in her barely-there bikini. Her long legs wrapped around his waist, her arms holding around the tops of his shoulder's, her palm size breasts pressed up against his russet skinned back instead of her brothers.
They all had their fantasies and their own secret thought's, hidden and protected for not a soul to see. Not until LaPush was quiet, and in the dead of the night, they'd call for her. Their wolf spirit howling, throwing their heads back and facing the moon. Calling to their ancestors and wishing, praying, hoping. Hoping one day, their imprints would break, and they were free to love again.
Like an unattainable quest for gold, an ever-present journey into an unknown land, a wonderous mirage for all to see. But never touch. Never reach out to wrap their arms around her waist. To kiss her mouth. To breathe in each breath she blew out. To use her as oxygen. Use her as a way of escape. A way to be normal. A way to want without guilt. A way to see without being blind.
It was all there. So close and yet, so far. Like a star.
She was the one thing that inspired this feeling. This wrong emotion. This unforgivable sin amongst imprinted wolves. This delicate flower amongst a bed of thorns.
She was Leah Clearwater.
And she was Lust.
