we got that love, the crazy kind
I am his and he is mine
I flinch as his hands run over my scars, expecting them to sting and ache where he touches, the flesh to still be raw. But it doesn't hurt, except internally, except in my mind where the blood still races and roars. The bite of the whip, the roar of the burns, the chains on my wrists - I don't think I'll be forgetting those particular sensations anytime soon, and the last thing I want right now is to be reminded of the weeks I spent in that fucking hell. Apologies are nothing, get you nowhere, and will not change the past. "Shut up and fuck me," I practically snarl, bucking my hips to grind against him, taking his lips to shut him up.He hoists me against him and carries me somewhere, and I can't help but moan my displeasure with it because goddamn, the delay is aggravating as hell. I want you now. I want to feel alive. I want to scream and howl, but I cannot let him see me beg. I promised myself I would never beg again after the first day of the torture, when my tears led to nothing but laughs and more pain, when I learned that kings and guards and princes are just as impervious to human suffering as the lowest waifs in the slums of Korofi. Begging has never gotten me anywhere, and I will not do it, even for him.
One day, I vowed in those long cold nights without a bed, I will make them beg to me.
I will not beg, but I can order. "More," I demand as he travels downward, pushing my fingers in his hair. He's always so slow, so savoring and teasing; it's torture of the sweetest kind, but not what I need right now. He was a storm the day I met him, and I need that storm to come back today. I need my traumas doused, his indiscretions flooded; I need to lose the horror I lived in the depths of his flinty eyes. Tomorrow, tomorrow, we can howl on the rooftops, if I don't wake up to it all gone away.
Hooking my leg over his shoulder I push my heel into his back, drawing him closer, into my core, while my hands clutch the remarkably soft sheets and my spine arcs off the bed. There is no propriety to my moans, no subduing the gasps of pleasure, the groans that I know he thrives on. I am not a dainty blonde, a little sweet thing that runs away at the first sign of trouble. I am wild, and I will fight (with him and for him as the case requires), and I am ready to take what I want, to have control for the first time in weeks.
LUSEA
