"M" themes very much in effect. You've been warned. Enjoy, and please leave a review if you have the time.
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"Wanna hypnotize you,
With the sweetest sweet.
Cause you know your love,
Makes me complete.
In the darkest hours,
Of the brightest days,
I wanna be beside you
Each step of the way."
-Wanna Be On Your Mind, Valerie June
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"Yes, Ruth. No artifice. No legend, or role. As me, always. Just me."
She had moved to within inches of him, and he could smell her skin, imagined the heat of it under his fingers, knowing he was moments away from being flayed beyond recognition, the feeling of weakness settling in his stomach, winding around the snake curled within. Taking his hand in hers, he watched the play of her features, the furrow of her brow, worrying her bottom lip, her restless fingertips brushing across the surface of his hand, tracing his fingers to the tips, working a pattern he didn't understand, tilting her head slightly as she smiled carefully, her eyes drawn to the water beyond them.
"You didn't listen to him. Gary."
It was a statement, spoken softly, on a whisper, her lips curled around it in a delicate smile, apprehension uncoiling smoothly within him as she captured his eyes, and he could do nothing but watch her mouth moving.
"Warnings have little effect on me outside of wanting more, My Ruth."
Placing her hand against his heart, he drew her to him, his eyes fixated on her mouth, wanting to kiss her again, wanting that part of him that was her to become fused within him, wanting the evening to never end, knowing they would leave soon, their moments magically out of time, theirs alone in the hourglass.
Her eyes roamed his face, searching for the tells, fettering out the truths spoken, measured against his physical presence, and he meditated the symmetry between he and Angela Wells, her need to belong to someone so overpowering her reason was subjugated and compromised, mirroring his own. He marveled at his willingness to be examined so closely, his innate remit hardwired to conceal at rest, and he imagined her eyes as a physical connection between them as she searched, felt their caress as though she were already burrowed deep inside him, stroking him from within.
He had loved her before she existed, before he had first heard of her, this little bird, and he loved her now beyond the confines of reality, and physics, and the rules binding together the known universe of science and theory, and for the first time in his sorry existence he thought he would sacrifice Queen and Country, duty and honor, if he could be granted her in the exchange. If the choice had to be made, he would chose her, as he would never have chosen Jane, or the children, or so many others lost to him now.
Unable to curb the urge, incapable of stopping himself, he extracted his hand from hers, drawing her face to his, placing his lips against hers, her smile against his lips a physical balm, softening against him, her fingertips dancing the sides of his face, and they spun together, joined as he rolled her back and underneath him, his hands cushioning her head, his lips glancing against hers, and he was shattered by the vision they made in his mind's eye, as the tears rolled from her eyes and he moved to capture them on his lips, her lips becoming hungry, her teeth drawing his mouth deeper inside her own, the urgency searing through him, each wanting to swallow the other whole, her whispered, Yes, I do want you, a verbal dagger scoring his heart.
Regardless the urgency, he understood this exchange as wholly different from the previous, this physical connection, their lips exploring the other, a conversation without words, verging dangerously close to idolatry, a rite of simultaneous submission and worship. Each caress, each kiss deeper than the last, the layers of themselves lain open beneath a darkened sky, their whispered words decorating the tether that had always joined them, and he thought it quite easy to allow himself to let go the chains of control and restraint, knowing this, her, for a place of safety, knowing himself to have always been Henry James Pearce, and no other, with her, this single woman, luminescent beneath him.
"We need to go, Ruth. Sun up soon, and we've a bit of travel ahead."
"I want to stay. With you. Always."
"Much as the idea appeals, I think we'll be missed in short order. Wouldn't do the have the whole of Five discover us here, I should think."
He chuckled as her face adopted a stricken look, the idea that they would be searched for, their absence raising an alarm apparently the furthest circumstance from her mind, and he inwardly relished the idea that he should have that effect on her, that her keen reason would prove an inadequate weapon against what they had so recently become. Still, the surveillance present in her home made allowing her to enter the least likely circumstance he was willing to entertain, and the idea to take her back to his bloomed naturally as the solution most desired, though somewhat cautiously, owing her penchant for privacy which might prove a more formidable obstacle should he openly suggest it.
Kissing the tip of her nose, he rolled himself to the side, hearing his hip bone crack, and his knee pop as he gathered himself slowly into a standing position, and concluded immediately that despite the delicious circumstances, he would be inclined to make love to her in the future in the comfort of his bed. Or, hers. He gazed down at her, her eyes now closed, the stricken look she had adopted morphing, as he watched, into one of pained acceptance, grasping her hand as she lifted her arm, a silent request for him to assist her, and he was rather saddened to find all he wanted to do was lay back down with her and forget everything and everyone save themselves, and to bloody hell with his cracking bones.
He drew her up and against him, her body molded to his, each perfectly suited to the other, his arms instinctually wrapped around her, her mouth nestled next to his pulse, his lips against the silk of her hair, delving the last moments available to them, this miraculous union both had wanted, and feared, and needed, desperation driving them to wring every available second afforded them, clinging to one another and the freedom to remain exposed without immediate consequence.
"We have to go, Ruth. I'm sorry, but we must."
She kissed his pulse, his cheek, then placed her hands on either side of his face, drawing him to her, the kiss full of longing and regret, bittersweet mixed with desire, and he gave in to her, deepening it, his tongue cresting and invading, coiling with hers as she went limp against him, her head dropping back and he was reminded of the Klimt painting Die Umarmung, depicting lovers cocooned together, the colors kaleidoscopic and rich, the details narrating the depths of adoration and submersion within their union.
He imagined them in perfect harmony to that masterpiece, their embrace mirroring the patterned details that had always drawn him, the dark haired woman almost entirely obscured by the breadth of her lover, enveloped within his arms and cloak. It was, to him, better than The Kiss in so many ways he'd not yet understood, but now could identify, as a lover's embrace alined each together, heart to heart, the mechanism by which each continued to draw breath joined in an embrace which demanded they continue, defining the measure by which they became one before joining lips, and bodies. It was soul joined to soul and a more intimate portrayal of love he could not name.
In time, he would tell her this, reveal that contemplative side of himself in turns, allow her to sift through the collection of Klimt's work he'd collected over the years, some framed throughout his home depicting women in the midst of ecstasy, their nude forms drawn, pornographic in Klimt's time, awe inspiring and humbling to him in his own. She was his dark haired lover, she was his erotica, her body his haven, and her face in ecstasy his daily wish and desire. He wanted to draw her down, divest her of every stitch of clothing, examine every inch of her with his fingers, his tongue, watch as she pulsed and bucked around him, listen as she begged him to fuck her, begged him to stop and never stop, and it was Herculean in nature the effort to deny himself in that moment, feeling her against him, knowing she would allow him anything he desired if only to remain here with her until sunrise danced across them, lighting her shadows, revealing her naked beauty again as it glistened in the rays.
They stumbled drunk with desire and need, he would guess, while gathering the remnants of their impromptu liaison, moving in the direction of the car, stopping to wrap themselves around one another, kissing and fondling, each time more urgent than the one previous, and he wondered the viability of driving in his current state of heightened awareness and arousal. Wondered, too, how he would suffer the drive without stopping to envelope her again, and again, sat idle the side of a deserted road marking the distance between there and home, the inches defining the kilometers between kissing her and tasting the warm liquid of her, his face nestled against her thigh, his eyes hypnotized, half lidded as she moistened for him, his name a sigh breathed to float above them in the confines of his bedroom.
Worse still, he wondered the means by which he would be able to work along side her, this day, and the next, and every one granted thereafter without revealing all to anyone present? How he would refrain from touching her, even briefly? How he would not see the body he has now glimpsed, not hear the words she had now spoken, avoid the pitfall of their tether proving a noose perfectly suited to their mutual undoing? His innate need for control had begun, with this recent collection of concerns, to simmer to life, his unconscious mind grasping for the ease of moments before, while his conscious mind demanded he begin to plot the course, manipulate their future together as easily as if it were following a recipe, some previously determined, infinitely manageable series of measurements available to everyone capable of reading, and possessing a kitchen.
Most pressing of his immediate concerns, however, was his need to be reassured that she neither regretted their physical awakening, nor believed it in any way short lived, or obligatory in nature. He was rubbish at this, he knew, skirting genuine emotions, searching for the ease of role and habit. Give him a legend and he became the person needed, did what was required, smooth as silk, softly, softly drawing the noose until completed. Give him a legend, and he was insurmountable. Hand him a genuine emotion, and he was as helpless as an infant, mewling for comfort and security.
He glanced towards her, smiling as he observed her, and was reminded of their age difference in the ease with which she contorted herself completely on the passenger seat, curled into a ball, her eyes clear, and soft, as she gazed at him in return. She blinked once, slowly, a shy smile lifting the corner of her mouth, her eyes accepting that he needed to say something, but was hesitant to act on the impulse, reading him easily.
"You said...Earlier, you said you'll not be satisfied with a memory. Do you remember?"
"I do."
"Do you still...You understand I...I can't...I won't live with only the memory, Ruth. I can't go back, now. I won't. Even after everything I've...told you. It was never...this was not obligation. I...Christ, I'm rubbish at this! I need you, is what I'm trying to say. So...there. I've said it. I need you, Ruth. If I'd have known we would...If I'd any idea that...I'd imagined so many ways to tell you, so many circumstances where I would just say what was in my heart, the proper words, the specific images and appropriate metaphors. So many hours spent. And, here it is, the moment I've rehearsed in my mind and it seems I've lost all ability to quote chapter and verse the reasons we should be together, and I'll confess a completely illogical fear that you're moments from telling me you're attending a dance with my best friend, and simultaneously content that you alone know exactly the reference. I can't describe how perilous and terribly wonderful it all seems to me. I can only confess that I cannot imagine a life without you. I don't want a life without you."
Reaching across, she held out her hand, wiggling her fingers until he placed his on top, their fingers weaving together as she closed hers around his.
"When I was a girl, very young, there was a game we would play sometimes during recess. Each of us would take turns balling our hand into a fist, and another classmate would wrap their hands around, squeezing that ball even tighter, until you could feel your nails digging in, but not so deeply as to draw blood, just the barest mark. We would stay like that, all tensed and scrunched up, for, oh, maybe four or five minutes. When time was up, we would turn our hands over, opening them quickly, and my classmate would place their hand open against mine, draw their fingers together from tips to inner palm, and pull away, as if gathering strings in the center of your palm and lifting?"
Turning their hands, she exposed his palm and demonstrated the idea, his hand resting palm up in hers, her fingers brushing inward, and drawing away. He was struck by the idea that she was quite gifted at avoiding direct answers, her skill at such very like his own. She was, like himself, an intricate puzzle, each piece a part of the greater whole, and yet unfathomable to the naked eye, a riddle to turn and examine, a delight to reveal and conquer.
"It won't work now, but then, then, as a child, when you still didn't really understand the nature of corporeal existence, when everything was still fairy dust and lightening bugs, and the world with all its infinite unanswerable questions fell to the wonders of determining how crickets knew to chirp, your hand would close as though attached to invisible strings drawing away, and it was mesmerizing, addictive, that desire to be drawn together, connected and tickled, but the means remained magically illusive, as so many things are when seen as a child. It was easy to believe it happened because it could happen, and the logistics or physics of it were unimportant. The science of it had yet to kill the illusion, the magic."
She formed his hand into a fist, wrapping her hands around his, applying pressure as she spoke, and he was best pleased that the road was all but deserted as her touch was wreaking havoc on his concentration. Still, knowing her as he did, he believed there a point, circuitously approached to be certain, but a reason she was telling him this, describing the feeling as a child, the loss once she became an adult. She wouldn't be his Ruth if she didn't, however maddening her illogical digressions may appear to be on their surface. Maddening, yes, but also endearingly, hopelessly, adorable to him. He, for his part, was content to hold her hand. The story was an added bonus to an already revealing experience. Nevertheless, despite himself, his mind began to fetter the meaning, attempted to divine her point before she could reveal it, a mental habit he had been forced to, by default it seemed to him now, acquire rather quickly after her arrival at Five.
"This is how I feel...inside...with you, Harry."
She released his hand, prying open his clenched fist, placing her hand open on top of his, and he felt the slight tug as she pulled her fingers to the center, and away, his fingers closing without thought, following hers as they drifted further from him. Wide eyed, he felt the invisible strings pulling, and a slight itching as his circulation began to spread from the center of his palm outward, and he thought he understood what she was trying to show him, about her, about them.
"Do you feel that? The pull, the tickle? Perfectly explainable logically, but I rather prefer the more magical aspects myself. That is how you make me feel, Harry. Like I was scrunched up tight into a balled fist, and you came and surrounded me, held me tight, and after a time, opened me up, reached in, understood my marks, and drew me out into the light, with you. That could never be confused for obligation. I hope to never live another moment without knowing that you are there, holding me, joined to me, however invisible the strings may be. I've only just realized I have been waiting for you, since I was a little girl playing games in a playground, without having the first clue that what we felt, what we repeatedly wanted to feel, was that pull, and only now can I put a name to it. Your name, Harry. In the simplest terms, Harry, I guess you could say I've waited a long time for you to find and pull me."
She had decorated her face with an impish grin. He found himself left speechless in the wake of her admission, feeling both elated and frustrated that he had not thought of anything falling close to as beautifully articulated to describe how he felt with her, and he was reminded again of the 'The Embrace,' the simplicity of Klimt's presentation of devotion. Reaching for her hand, he attempted to salve his poetic failures by kissing her pulse, the tickle of her demonstration still tingling the tips of his fingers, his lips curling into a wry smile at the intended double entendre allowed by her clever use of the word pull. He remained hopeful that she had forgiven his previous dalliances, even as he remained hopeful that she believed his denial that he had not stalked her, or had been manipulated by him. Or, at least, believed presently his past intentions, easily interpreted as both, had been noble if not entirely pure of heart in measure.
He didn't reply, owing to the lump that had risen in his throat, and contented himself to periodically gaze over at her, her hand clasped in his resting on his thigh, seeing her features gradually soften with sleep, her exhalations disturbing the lock of hair that had fallen forward, keeping time with her heartbeat. He had never known anything more precious and vulnerable than her as she peacefully dosed, and resolved then to take her directly to his, carry her into his home, and up the stairs, lay her on his bed, and possessively spoon himself around her as she slept, anticipating the moment when she would wake, and he the first thing she laid her eyes on, bugger the potential for surveillance, and bugger all the rest.
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He discovered she was a restless sleeper, one who initially claimed a side, and then spent the hours given over to sleeping migrating towards the center, turning until she awoke, spooned within his draped arm and leg, sideways along the king size surface of his bed. She was also a deep sleeper, deadened to her environment or attempts to wake her, and he was amused to find she had little recollection of conversations they'd had while she was still deeply asleep. If she were considered a silent observer in her waking hours, she more than made up for it while she slept, the subjects and themes murmured covering a variety of completely unrelated, and unconscious meanderings.
But it was the first few moments upon waking, before she looked at him, when half lidded she stretched herself like a cat, arching her back, toes pointed, arms reaching above her head, a deep, throaty groan vibrating from within her that left him equal parts amused and enamored.
As it happened, the brief window in which he could usually find a few hours respite in slumber had passed long before they had arrived at his, and having resolved to bypass hers for his, he was content to spend the few hours that remained them watching her as she slept. He had always been a physical sleeper, never one to wake up in exactly the same position as when he first settled in. And while she was even more surprisingly restless, it seemed to him she was likewise inclined given the numerous times they found themselves reaching for the other, a leg entwined with hers, her arm thrown across his chest, her head nestled against his side, her bum snug against his cock, and he adjusting awake as she continually re-situated herself in sleep.
He watched her, and listened as she murmured about grocery lists, potential gifts for Wes' upcoming birthday, a reminder to stop at the dry cleaners, and made a mental note to himself to remind her to get cat food, something she repeated, he thought, three times, and assumed the frequency suggested it rather vital.
He loved having her there, with him, in the bed he'd not shared with anyone before her. He loved that she left one foot exposed, while the other rested against his calf. He loved that her hair, usually so neat and tidy, was a riotous disarray as she slept, falling across her face, and absently brushed aside as she adjusted. He loved that she kicked the covers off, tossed pillows aside, but most of all, he loved that when she curled into him, her lips warm against his neck, inhaling deeply, she sighed his name as she exhaled, her breath warm against him. He loved it every time she did it, which, by his count, was currently three times.
"Morning."
"Ummm, morning."
"You need to get cat food."
"Okay."
"No, you mentioned it. A couple times. If we're...I don't want to be on the back foot with the other man in your life. So, pick up some cat food."
"I...Oh, did I...I've been told I do that."
"You do. As for who told you, that...I don't want to think about, thank you."
"I'll spare you, then. Ummm, you're so warm. Did you not sleep?"
She had turned fully into him, wrapping her arm around his middle and squeezing as she spoke, her leg winding around his, her knee nestled against his cock, and the hair at her crown tickled his nose. He wondered how much time he had from that moment to the moment when she realized she was currently wearing the barest minimum, that being a curiously mismatched set of undergarments consisting of a truly heart stopping sheer lace bra in virginal white, and the black lace panties he'd been fortunate enough to observe much earlier. That, and how he would explain how she became so deliciously disrobed while he remained fully clothed in faded T-shirt and track pants, excepting his feet, believing it all could prove an uncomfortable bit of verbal backtracking. Best to point out he had folded her clothing neatly, and if needs must, lie about having closed his eyes.
"Not a bit. Let's start over. Good Morning, Ruth."
"Why? This is perfect, Harry. Like we're old hat already. We would have to be if I'm dressed in nothing, and you look as though your ready to go for a run."
If he were wearing his watch, he felt the answer to his silent musings fell somewhere around twenty-three seconds. Clever girl.
"Right, about that. I folded your clothes. Right over there, see? And I only looked a little, just when absolutely necessary...buttons and zippers...they can be tricky. Didn't want to tear anything."
"Very generous of you, Harry. That's all, then?"
"Yep. Well, there's...That bloody bra just about gave me a coronary. It was all white lace...and sheer...and practically glowed. Its a menace, Ruth. I damn near passed out."
"Ahhh, at last the truth. I take it you enjoyed the selection, despite the near fatal result, then?"
"I would have enjoyed it more if you hadn't been wearing it, quite honestly. Or been in the least bit awake when I removed it. One handed. It's a skill I have honed, not bragging, just stating a fact. But, I am a gentleman, Ruth. I can only allow myself to take advantage of your sleeping, nearly naked body to a point. It's why I'm dressed to go running, if you must know. Normally, I sleep naked, myself. The thought of you, in my bed, with me, in just your panties and bra? Suffice to say I'd rather you fully conscious when I brush your naked body with mine."
"There is precious little about what you just said that strikes me as any way gentlemanly, Harry. Mind you, I am a bit frustrated that the first night I spent in your bed, an intimate fixture I have entertained a number of fantasies about, was spent actually sleeping. I will admit I am glad that you aren't naked, though. I find the idea of disrobing you myself infinitely more appealing. There have been a fair number of fantasies about that, as well."
As if to illustrate her point, she had worked her hand under the hem of his T-shirt while speaking, drawing it upwards, and began grazing his exposed stomach with her fingertips, and he matched her motions with his own fingertips along the exposed length of her smooth back, as she nudged her knee closer, and then on top of his hardening cock, applying a bit of added pressure, and then dropping it again between his legs.
"So, you're fine with my choosing to bring you here? I'll admit, I did take advantage as you were dead to the world driving back. I didn't want to wake you, not that I could, really, so..."
"How did you get me up here? Without waking me, I mean."
"Carried you. You are the very definition of dead sleeper, Ruth. I fear for the firefighter tasked with carrying you down a ladder to safety. Honestly, I think I might have blown my knee, but needs must."
"I'm sorry."
"What, my knee? No worries, it's been known to happen from time to time."
"No, that I wasn't awake while you carried me. I would have liked being conscious for that. Though the knee thing is bad."
"Trust me, its better this way. Count yourself blissfully ignorant to how long it took. Better that you think I Rhett Butlered you up the staircase. Quick and easy, three stairs at a time."
"If I'm not entirely mistaken, after Rhett vaulted up the stairs with his Scarlet, wasn't that the night one Bonnie Blue Butler was conceived?"
"Are you suggesting I went full Butler? I did not. I merely watched you as you slept. Answered a few questions, was delighted by your grocery list. I think a kitten for our Wes might be pushing your luck. Stop by your dry cleaners, by the way. Overall, I spent a fair portion of time avoiding one thrashing, restless arm or leg, all so that I could be the first thing you saw when you woke up. Unusually selfless of me, really."
"I adore you, Harry. I really do."
"Okay. I'll carry you to the loo. I'm not promising it will be impressive, but you're awake now, the distance isn't too much, so consider it on offer."
"I'd much rather just stay in bed with you. All day. I can promise it will prove impressive, there's no distance to speak of, and you're awake now, so consider me on offer."
"See, this is the kind of thing that will definitely put me in dutch with Fidget."
"I'm shocked. After all the things I've heard and read, the legendary Harry Pearce, the man who taught a master class on honey trap techniques to fledgeling wanna be's, is turning down pussy out of concern for my cat?"
Damn.
"I don't know which is more of a turn on, Ruth? You curled up next to me half naked, or the selection of words coming out of your mouth."
It took little effort on his part to flip them over so she was secured underneath him, and, true to form, her choice of words had seared through him, making his semi-erect cock harden fully in mere seconds. What was it, exactly, about the word pussy falling from the mouth of a woman who for all practical purposes appeared excessively structured and reserved on the surface that had him completely undone? Certainly, she was not as innocent as her appearance would suggest to the casual observer, and without doubt he knew it was the subtle suggestion she was a bit on the naughty librarian side that had his libido in overdrive, the lurid innuendo which had habitually taunted and stroked him since his days of burgeoning puberty. He had always thought the idea a bit of a trope, but now, he couldn't deny it had a certain appeal. How in the bloody hell is he going to see her and not wonder about that damn bra? Or any of the others, assuming she possessed a variety. And, if he had anything to do with it, she would, his mind already picturing a wide assortment of colors and styles, even then anticipating fondling her while wearing them.
She had wrapped her legs around him, undulating against him while he pondered, her mouth working the pulse point on his neck, I'll have to refrain from loosening my tie, drawing his shirt up his back, fingers running the length of his muscles, and he tore his mind away from his internal questions long enough to look down between them and watch as her breasts, encased in that gloriously distracting bra pressed against his chest, molding to him, the nipples hardening as he watched. He almost didn't hear it, as he scooted down, placing his tongue against the soft lace, circling her, drawing the fabric down, delighting as the ripened nipple sprang back, capturing it with his teeth, running his tongue along the tip. His other hand had gravitated naturally to her lower abdomen, inching closer with each undulation of her body, his fingers finally sinking into her folds to find her so unbelievably wet he very nearly came.
And then he did hear it. His phone. Or rather, the ringtone indicating he had a priority message. She must have heard it too as she murmured something close to either No, or perhaps, Never mind, he couldn't be altogether certain. What he was certain of was that she was in the same state of frustrated as he, and not much either could do about it and call it satisfying. Resigned to a massive bout of blue balls, he couldn't resist heightening their mutual discomfort with a parting taunt. He traced her jawline with his lips, capturing her earlobe between his teeth, biting her lightly, licking and then drawing it into his mouth before whispering.
"Much as I want, more than anything, to pet your pussy at this very moment, we, regrettably, need to get to the Grid. So, up with you, now, before I change my mind"
Not to be outdone in the taunting department, she moved so that he fell back onto his back and straddled him. Sitting up, she undid the back of her bra, allowing the shoulder straps to drop lazily around her upper arms, but didn't remove it, held there, suspended by a physics he couldn't imagine, as she placed her hands palms down against his chest. He was mesmerized by the sight, wanting desperately to remove it altogether, and when she rolled her hips against him, the glimpses of exposed breasts afforded him had him biting his lower lip, and thrusting upwards, despite his clothing, or the cell phone missives. Quick as a cat pouncing its prey, she rolled once more, climbed off of him, slid casually off the bed, turned her back, removed her bra exposing the bare length ending with the lace of her panties, dropped it, walked to the doorway of his en suite, bent over at the waist, removed her panties in one fluid movement, flashing the moistening object he had spent many an evening envisioning, and tossed them casually over her shoulder.
He wouldn't have been surprised to find his face looked as though he had been slapped very hard, and had yet to accept it. The sight was so undeniably sexy he almost didn't hear her.
Almost.
"My pussy will be in the shower awaiting your attention. Please feel free to take your time, of course, but don't expect me to wait too long. We do need to hurry."
She will make you bleed.
Drawing back the curtain, hand firmly stroking his own hardened length, he was greeted with a thoroughly wet, soapy, deliciously naked Ruth.
"It's very possible you might kill me, Ruth."
"Maybe. Though, not quite yet."
Reaching, she gently removed his hand, replacing it with her own, grasping him firmly, squeezing him slowly while smiling what could only be described accurately in his mind as a wickedly naughty smile, and drew him to her.
As he moved to caress and wrap himself around her, he spied the bruises adorning her upper arms, no longer subject to the distractions of bras, the image settling like stones in his heart, and he saw, flickering bright from the darkness deep within him, the familiar shape of his shadow's smile, and knew it for a certainty this menacing portion of himself would not suffer being subjugated indefinitely.
The thought, predictable as it was, and despite the warmth of her presence, left him afraid.
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RECD: 5:12 AM
EYES/EARS CLOSED
IVY PROTOCOL
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URGENT
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