4 (flesh)
He dreams of Rosie, Rosie in the days before he killed her.
Rosie in their kitchen, quietly making tea.
Rosie passing by him, absently, a whiff of incense, a jangle of earrings, a billow of skirts, turning the corner and gone
Rosie humming to herself, leafing through a book with pin-delicate fingers, ginger and careful, loving.
Rosie's mouth hot-open, her head thrown back, her whole body tense and arching as if electrified. Rosie's soft supple shoulder, sinew and skin, giving just enough between his teeth. Rosie pulling at him, wrapping and locking her legs around his desperate hips, his cock aching, aching inside her, his mouth hungry, his hands fisting her hair, fisting the sheets.
Rosie not a rose, Rosie a twisting, writhing, wild thing. Rosie magnetic, Rosie drawing him in. The slide of her hands, the heat of her breath, the give of her thighs, the half-bruised resilience of her flesh. The self-sustaining energy between him and her, the electricity over their skin.
Rosie. Rosie, Rosie.
He does not wake in a cold sweat.