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~~Amalia~~ · 07-09-2019, 06:51 AM

Amalia

stop thinking so much

To Amalia it does not matter whether his songs are anthems or sonatas, so long as they are for her. He makes her vices thrive and hunger, raise their long unburdened heads and display beautiful, pearly teeth. Greed for every touch he offers, his every glance, his very breath; jealousy, lest she lose her treasure, the prize she still cannot comprehend how she came to claim. He makes her preen and flaunt her pride, delightful awe at being his: she wants the world to know their onus, that they have been claimed as their own; she wants to hide the truth away, to keep the beautiful thing they have safe and secret from prying eyes.

And then, of course, there is lust. Lust, which Amalia has never been accused of, never counted among her sins (and oh, there are too many to count). Lust, which the girl rather thought herself incapable of, resigned herself to a passionate life marked by dispassion in this area alone.

Ah, how she was wrong.

She watches him as he sets to work, methodical, purposeful, patient and serene. And when at last he turns around his surprise is all the reward she needs, a fierce blush rising to her cheeks, defiant merriment in her sable eyes. She shivers beneath his raking gaze, hazily delighted to know it is her, that she can incense such interest from him - interest further evidenced as he slips off his pants, a fair exchange, tit for tat. Slowly, scintillating, a dreadful tease; Amalia shifts and bites her lip, her thoughts written frankly on an expressive face. Patience is not among her virtues: she begins to ache to move things faster, to take the thing she so dearly wants.

But doing so would be admitting defeat, and she wants to be the one to quell him, to make him bend and break, even though she knows full well that he is in control. It is part of the game, part of the challenge, part of the dance they waltz. Her eyes on him, Amalia begins to untie her shirt, slender fingers pulling slowly at the tie which holds it across her chest, a bow undone in nigh slow-motion, the front of the dirty blouse falling away to show her sternum, the clearly defined clavicles that rise beneath her skin. Reaching up with her right hand, she pushes the left sleeve off her shoulder before repeating the action on the other side. A shrug; the blouse slips to the floor, where she kicks it away with barren feet, her dark eyes glinting as they sink into his blue, her body bare but for her breastband and drawers, the bones of her body sharp edges and lines, her figure far more concave than curved. Her smile is marred by the heaviness of her eyes, the way her breath comes heavy and fast. Forcing her arms to hang by her sides, Amalia waits for his response, anxious and ardent and wonderfully enthralled.

you're breaking your own heart