Category: Crimson Writ

“You….you are my light, and you want to be my dark.”

Bruised lips, justified in increments, understood but not uncontested.

I breathe you in the way the rain breaks the sky.

You uncripple me; I become undevoted to task, divested of purpose, without self or center. I am lost less in concept then in act, and you are my false hope, the benefactor of my unmoored desires. False prophetess, you are the closest thing I have to a word for freedom. All other words were left behind, the well-intentioned and the devil’s part, cast off in a broken trail like breadcrumbs.

Never trust a wolf, especially if the wolf is your better half.

He’ll devour the breadcrumbs and then he’ll devour you.

There is a special kind of pain.

The blossoming of red so fast your breath catches, your muscles tense, your teeth clench in a snarl.

The call of sharp teeth found in dark purple bruises, the echo of fingernails recalled in indentations and scratched red lines.

There is no surer way to wake someone then to hold them still and leave remembrances that won’t soon fade.

Do not be sane.

Or give up your thirst.

Do not loosen your grip on the harmony of need and grace.

Or let slip your memory of the low cry when caught between curiosity and desperation.

Do not forget the language of lips to wrist, and teeth to pulse.

Or the spaces between.

Do not ignore the lullaby that leaves you bereft.

Or the cradle used to kindle your fire.

Do not hide from the torrent, the river, the rain.

Or the unwise but sumptuous words that fill you.

—

You will not be cleansed of sin, or forgiven your trespass. You will not be given penance or allowed absolution.

But you will know love (and the glory of life).

Tigriss.

I awoke to the sound of thunder today, and in the moments that followed, I thought of you.

‘If it rains,’ I thought, ‘If the skies open and there is a downpour – I will stay home today and hunt you.’

I want you wet, soaked by the rain.

And I will pin you to the door.

One hand on your wrists, drawing them over your head.

The other brushing wet strands of hair from your neck, touching lightly.

“Here.” I will say.

Your shoulder, shirt drawn aside. “Here.”

The low undercurve of a breast, “And here.”

And then I am kneeling, to draw your shirt up over your hips, breath warm against your skin.

Bared skin is a calling; I continue to name the places I kiss. “Hips,” lips parted, wet and warm. I follow the lines, your pelvic bone, dragging clothing low, followed by the hint of teeth.

Deceptive, how gentle each kiss is, lulling you into a rhythm and pattern of surrender that I learned by listening to your heartbeat.

But the gentleness is a lie, and you know it as my hands expose more. Small kisses turning into small bites, hands that are almost rough as they uncover more skin.

“Thighs,” spoken low enough for you to feel the word, etched against the smooth expanse along your inner thigh. You would think me impatient but for the deliberate cruelty I show in laying each kiss against your rain-slick skin.

Oh, you are too perfect to relinquish.

It would be easier to forget the rain or the wind today than forget how it feels when the heat of your blood rises through your skin.

“You have to go,” she murmured before falling asleep in my arms.

—

I pride myself on my self-control.

But I was nearing my limit.

Even half-asleep, curled naked next to me, she couldn’t help herself; her small curved ass pressed back against me, moving slowly, and I felt myself harden until I was nestled firmly against her.

It was such a small shift, an almost-mistake, and I was no longer pressed up against her — I was inside, my hands on her hips and one leg across her own, moving in the same slow rhythm in which her ass had stroked me into rigid need.

I was startled by how well she fit me, how easy it felt being inside her.

Hands on her legs, I lifted and held them together as I moved on top, driving down, pinning her against the hotel bed sheets. For the first time there were no false protests, no modesty-saving indecision, only: “I like…being fucked…like this…”

—

Later, curled against me again, less asleep, she said, “…but really, you have to go…”