Beautiful

[northangel27]

Beautiful

His body is laid out before her, a map and treasure all in one.  A map of his suffering—the trails of scars running between the peaks of his shoulder blades, over the ridges of his ribs.  The treasure lies in its beauty—pale, lean, taut.  Her lips graze lightly over the peak of one dusky nipple, and he gasps and then whimpers.  The sound of it sends pleasure exploding through her.

“So beautiful,” she whispers against pale flesh.

He won’t argue with her now, with the backs of her fingers gliding over the concave hollow of his belly, following the faint trail of dark hair, until it meets his belt.  She lingers there, her finger tracing the line where fabric and leather meet skin. 

A moan.

She lets her eyes slid shut.  “I get so hungry.  I need—this—you.”

The room is warm—too warm.  Small pools of salty sweat begin to gather in the hollows of his chest, the cup of his throat, she laps them up like a kitten lapping cream.  He squirms and moans again.

“So beautiful…” she murmurs again.

Her fingers mesh and then unmesh with his.  They trail over the soft, white flesh of his forearm, so strong, yet vulnerable.  The sight of it never fails to undo her.

His hair trails out over the pillow in lank, damp strands—tributaries of Styx, cutting through a pure while landscape of unsullied cotton.  She buries her nose in it and breaths deep.  He smells like the river, and like sweat, and ever so slightly of strong lye soap.

His head turns, and lips press against her ear, hot breath parting the hair behind it, and sending shivers up and down her spine.  “Please…”  It’s barely a whisper, and she has never heard him plead before.

She turns into that kiss, and loses herself—completely.

“Please…”  He whispers it again and again as he kisses her.  She doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but it almost feels like it’s his life.

“Yes,” she tells him.  “Anything you need.  Everything you need.”

He nearly smothers her then.  She is drowning in kisses, beneath the flood of his yearning.  So much pent up frustration, anger, sorrow, released in one frenzied race to the finish.

It has never been like this before.  She has never seen him come undone—wholly.  Where are all the masks she wonders?  Gone.  Every one.  He is stripped bare, body, soul, spirit.  He is a wild, and almost feral thing, sobs, and whimpers and moans vibrating through his body into hers.

Her climax catches her unawares, and he is caught up on the crest of it, carried to shore along with her, until he crashes into her, and they lay together, a tangle of sweat slick, satiated limbs, trembling from the exertion and flush with joy.

“So beautiful…” she whispers.

The black eyes meet hers, and for the first time she knows he believes her.

.