Sonnet 3

Sonnet 3

Fevered flesh burns beneath taut fingertips

Each stroke and pull awakens more desire

Memories melt like honey on my lips

Each fresh remembrance setting me afire.

I'll replay ev’rything I've memorized

Your name synonymous with need and ache

Undeniably I am tantalized

From daydreams of you let me never wake

I'll build a bridge out of my arching spine

Fill up my sails with ev’ry gasping breath

Out of my quaking ribcage build a shrine

I'll sigh your name with every little death

I will soon collapse into your embrace

But until then will dream of your sweet face

This won’t make your blog look ugly. How could you not reblog this? REBLOGGING THIS COULD SAVE A LIFE!!!

He watched her in the dim light of the club. She was surrounded by sycophants who wanted access to her, to her money. She could barely contain her disdain and revulsion. It radiated off of her, a living thing.

Men sent her drinks. She feigned a flirtatious wave and passed the drinks and the men along to the women around her. The scene left her cold. It had, since she was little. But she kept up appearances.

Being irrelevant was worse, maybe. The only thrill she felt was the made up bullshit in the tabloids. She went home alone, mostly sober, every night.

She was intriguing to him. When she got up to dance, he moved next to her. His own aura was menacing enough, he glowered down any potential suitors. She turned, and he caught her in his arms. Her mouth opened to protest, and her used a single finger to raise her chin and close her mouth, then shook his head and waved a finger. "Shhh. Dance."

She scowled. Nobody told her what to do. Ever. But he was divine as a partner on the floor. She'd never been lead so...expertly. It was almost mesmerizing. When the song ended, he leaned in and whispered, "Again, dearie?"

Her hand went up, and he caught her by the wrist, tutting at her. He brought the offending limb to his nose, breathed deep, then dropped the wrist to his mouth and swirled his tongue over the tender flesh.

Yanking her hand back, she stormed back to her court, casting black glances across the room, but he disappeared into the crowds.

This happened maybe once a month for awhile, then more frequently. She was almost becoming fond of the rage he inspired as much as she hated herself for how she loved how commanding he was when they danced.

Then one day, he followed her into the bathroom when she went to fix her makeup. He was done waiting. The door slapped open.

She looked up, mouth suprised, fresh laquer over her lips, red as blood. Two other girls glanced at the duo and scurried out. As he advanced on her, she cast about, looking for exits. She settled on the nearest stall and dove in, but he was faster, slamming the door after them and locking them in, while simultaneously trapping her against the wall, face first.

"Wh...wha..." She stammered, cheek against the tile, lipstick smearing.

"Shut. Up." He ordered. "If I wanted to hear a spoiled brat talk, I'd go to the bar."

She squeaked, body trembling in righteous indignation.

He pressed against her from behind, hands smoothing down over her shoulders, rib cage, waist, hips. His fingers curled against her slowly and pulled her ass towards him and she felt her body complying, as if it knew it always would. "Oh god." She softly whimpered.

He chuckled. "That I might be." One hand trapped her hips against him as he ground sinuously, while the other snaked up her side, under her top, over her bra. The fabric was flimsy, and her nipples were already straining.

"For all your protestations, your body tells me something different, brat."

"I'm not a brat." She whispered. Her eyes were closed, entire body trembling.

"Didn't I already tell you to shut up?" The hand at her hip slid over the waist band of her skirt, into her panties, and down between her legs. She was soaking. He toyed with her for long minutes, swirling his fingers through the juices in her cleft, while the other stroked and pulled at her nipples. Finally, he leaned in and murmured, "I'm going to take you home, brat." She nodded. "Speak up?"

"Please?" She panted, shuddering. He released her slowly, spinning her to face him, "That's a good girl." Taking her by the chin, he held her gaze. "A very good girl. Come now." She looked a mess, but she also looked, for the first time ever, pleased.

Dawn

It’s that space between sleep and alarms, the cozy darkness of about 4am. He turns in his sleep, uncomfortable, rolling, nestling against her back gently like a rowboat docking.

His arms encircle her, drawing her closer, so he tucks his whiskered chin against her shoulder, spooning her fully, ensuring they are touching from head to toe. She stirs somewhat in complaint; she’d not been restrained moments ago and now he’d nearly buried the length of her, twining their limbs .

He is content for a moment, before her hips shift, rolling slowly against his groin as she surfaces from sleep, in turn waking his cock. Groaning, he pulls her tighter against his crotch, the unnatural movement waking her further. A soft moan escapes her lips and he’s emboldened.

His hands sweep over her nightshirt, up to her breasts, cupping them familiarly and rolling his thumbs over her rapidly stiffening nipples. She moans again, louder, her hips rolling against his prick. He pinches her nipples gently, and pulls, netting himself soft panting for his efforts. She’s more awake now, reaching behind her for his cock, stroking him through the flimsy fabric of his boxers.

He slides his hands over the low scoop of her neckline, cupping her breasts in his hands, skin on skin. She rolls over, impatiently shucking her shirt off over her head, pressing up against him with a warm, half-awake chuckle.

Cupping her face in his hands, he kisses her hungrily, lips nipping with ferocity, tongue battling. She wasn’t prepared for such an onslaught of ardour. Her kisses are sleepy, syrupy, sweet, her fingers trailing through the curls on his chest before descending to his boxers and the contents therein. She purrs as she slides her fingers beyond the waistband and meets his hard cock, stroking eagerly.

“Yes.” He hisses into her ear, before leaning down and nipping her shoulder, fingertips stroking over her back. She growls, nuzzling his throat, hands working his swollen prick.

“I want you.” She murmurs, realizing she wants more than to stroke her lover, and he pins her on her back, leaning in to taste her breasts aggressively, a knee sliding between her legs. She needs no coaxing.

He shimmies out of his boxers and centers himself between her legs. She drapes her arms over his shoulders, while he guides his cock through her wetness. “Please.” She pleads. He needs no further encouragement and slowly drives himself home with a contented growl.

She sighs, pleased, before they begin to move in tandem, an old practiced dance. He strokes her pussy with his dick, while she milks him with her cunt. They work together, the tempo teasing and pleasing, heightening their pleasure. Before he knows it, she’s reached her peak and surged over it’s edge, her cries a soft soprano in praise. He allows himself to let go and join her, meeting her gentle cooing with his own harsher, gutteral, primal calls, painting the walls of her pussy with his fluids, marking her as his again and again.

For a few moments the only sounds are their breaths slowing, before she chuckles and he rolls to her side with a laugh of his own.

“I hate it when you go.” She said, just a hint of sadness in her voice.

“I love it when you come.” He said with a grin. They were both silent before bursting into giggles and snuggling into each other’s arms.

Kissing his temple, she smiled and whispered, “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” He murmured, pulling her as close as possible.

I loved her in the way that only comes with youth: irresponsibly, naïvely, selfishly, wholly and joyously, and I didn't even realise it was love.

I called her my friend, my very best friend. I told her if I were a man I'd take her away from everything that troubled her. I wanted to protect her and keep her safe.

In my ignorance, I hurt her, drove her away, because she already had the language to know how she felt, but surely if I were queer, someone would have told me.

It was the loneliest closet, for I didn't know I was in it, alone.

He guided her back to the vanity and took a tissue to her mussed face, his movements deliberate and gentle. She wasn't surprised; some part of her expected it, knew from how he spun her out and drew her back on the dance floor that there could be an undercurrent of tenderness. She took his hand in hers, turning the palm up, and placed it to her lips, kissing his skin.

He smiled faintly, tossing the tissue away, stroking her hair with his free hand. "An apology? Unusual. I accept."

"It wasn't..." she started to protest, before casting her eyes upwards, glancing into his. She was thunderstruck.

"You're a demon." She whispered.

"Nothing so common." He scoffed, waving a hand, before taking her elbow. "Come, my brat."

"Yes." She said, mouth dry. He’d never used a single power on her.

He led her through the kitchens. She was rich; she exited this way constantly. Her limo was parked out back, anyhow.

The driver raised a single brow, which lowered under His gaze. She just shrugged. "Take us home." The driver seemed about to argue, when she gave him a look, "Home, Rhys. It's not a debate." He stiffened and opened the door for the couple, shutting it politely once they were within, and pulling away from the curb moments later.

In the back, he pulled her to his side. She resisted for a fraction of a second and he shot her a warning look. Interpreting it immediately, she nestled against him, shivering. He could sense her blood pounding through her veins, roaring in her ears.

"Are you frightened, brat?" He leaned down and breathed against her ear, before allowing his tongue to trace the outline.

She whimpered softly, hands clasping the hand of the arm he had around her shoulders, before she found her rebellion, and whispered, "I have a name."

"Eulalia Chara Kazantzakis. Yes. Heir to the fortune. The only remaining heir. Your brother lost his life in a duel, your parents in a car crash. You're alone in the world. You go by Lollie. I'm going to call you Brat...in private. But among others, Eulalia. Your name is beautiful."

Her eyes fluttered closed. "Yes."

He nuzzled against her hair, lips pressed to her ear, murmuring, "Or shall I call you Eulalia in private, when you've behaved?"

Gooseflesh erupted over her skin, and she nodded, trembling.

"Yes." He breathed. "You'd like me to acknowledge you more as just my brat. More than just..." He paused, and smiled, growling the word, "Mine."

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, pressing her knees together. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Her fingernails bit into his flesh, she was holding his hand so tightly.

"When was the last time you ever felt this exhilarated, Eulalia?" He asked softly, shaking her hands from his, then drawing his hand in, to her throat, stroking the flesh there. Her hands descended to her knees, clenched into fists.

"Well?" He queried. Her response was a full body shudder, and he deliberately, slowly, grasped her windpipe. "That's not an answer, brat." He drew her chin back, tipping her head so he could look down into her eyes.

"When?"

She shook her head, eyes opening, clear, feckless. "Never."