The woods closed up around us, their leaves intertwining to form a makeshift roof over our heads. It was barley spring, the air still chilly. I wore a washed out denim jacket against the cold. The trees began to bloom, green opening and curling over one another to feel the first kiss of spring sunlight. It was too early for flowers; the only colors were muddy grey-browns and the newborn green. Afternoon light shone down in broken shafts of unsteady light, light that shifted as the wind rustled the leaves, like a mother gently rocking a cradle. Cerulean pulled a lighter out from the depths of his baggy jeans, pressing one hand over his cigarette to light up.

My work boots crunched the winter’s casualties still littering the dirt. My jeans were heavy and dark, a different shade of blue denim from my jacket. Cerulean hated that, always asked why I couldn’t make things match. Those were the kind of fights we’d have. Clouds passed overhead, dimming the world down and softening the colors of the day. The brilliant emeralds faded to a dull jade, the gold sunbeams shattering, giving way to dreary grey light.

Cerulean rolled up his sleeves, revealing a long line of tattoo across the back of his broad shoulders. I knew those wings spread out in a leathery looking blue, coating most of his back. He smiled at me through his cigarette, knowing what I was looking at. His wings were his pride, a hidden jewel spanning his back.

He puffed smoke into the gray day, a brilliant smile gracing his beautiful face. He looked boyish and innocent, the look only interrupted by a long silver bar through the skin of his eyebrow. His longish blue-black hair tumbled down into his eyes, covering the piercings lining the curve of both ears. A worn gray t-shirt looked as though it were molded to the curved muscles of his chest, and fell down to brush the tops of his designer jeans.

He always looked amazing.

I felt kind of rough and tumble standing next to him, like I was something dirtier, with a little less class and a lot less money. But that’s the way it was, wasn’t it?

Cerulean noticed I was watching him intently, noticed the frown on my lips, that my hands were crushed into my pockets. There must have been a bit of jealousy lingering in my eyes, perhaps a touch of distaste with myself that forced him to move. The cigarette fell from his fingertips, forgotten, as he slid forward, a modern-day god in black converses. There was a quiet sway to his hips, a whispering of something different about him. It made the girls whisper and the boys weary. It was unique, and somehow, entirely masculine.

I took an involuntary step backwards as he pressed into me, the denim covering my back scratching against the bark of a tree. There was a kind of green silence to our clearing, interrupted only by the sleepy buzz of insects and the occasional hymn from a passing bird.

“There something wrong?” His voice was deep and dark, like velvet. I loved the way he spoke, the movement of his lips as his thoughts spilled out of them. I was entranced by his closeness, the feel of his breath brushing across my skin.

Rich, royal blue shimmered out from under his wild curtain of hair. His eyes were brilliant, and dusted with a darker, almost violet color toward his pupil.

He was mesmerizing. I had to look away.

Thoughts flashed though my mind, all the things that were wrong, all the things I could have said to that honey-sweet question, spilling from his wild mouth.

“Naw, man,” I mumbled, unable to meet those deep azure eyes. They would be flashing, warily, at my naked lie. But he would say nothing. He never said anything.

The wind picked up again, tossing his ebony curls forward, into the drowning pools of his eyes. He took firm hold of my chin, his manicured nails biting into the soft skin of my neck. I turned back to him at his urging, losing myself in the subtle madness of the whole situation, of the beauty of the man before me. I could feel the world spinning, slowly, solidly, the trees dancing, leaves careening into themselves, the wild, wild wind blurring everything before me...

The feel of his lips over mine brought me back; his tongue invaded me, filling my mouth with taste of tobacco and candy. Sweet and sour blurred in a fusion that was distinctly Cerulean. He kissed a white-hot line down to the base of my neck, burning my entire body in a convulsion of desire. His hand snuck under the hem of my t-shirt, smoldering fingertips pressed against the thin curve of my hipbone.

He pulled away, leaving a fiery residue where he’d touched me. “Well,” he breathed, the smell of sex curling from his body, “if there’s nothing wrong, I want you come home with me.”

“Home? We’re not going back to class?” I asked, breathlessly, running a nervous hand through my hair.

Taking my hand in his, Cerulean pulled me forward, away from the clearing and back towards school, where his car awaited. We managed to cruise out of the parking lot without getting caught. He drove too fast, taking turns with a slow burning cigarette pressed between his lips.

I was surprised when he stopped in front of his own house. Just what was he getting at? I walked up the very familiar porch, half wondering if he’d dragged me out of school just to get laid. Not that it hadn’t happened before...

But to my surprise, he pulled me into the kitchen and settled me into one of the kitchen chairs. The kitchen was a quaint mix of light woods and white, contrasted by hints of black. It was an expensive kitchen, something straight out of a magazine. In all the years I’d trailed in Cerulean’s shadow, I’d never seen him or his mother use this room once.

“Can I get you anything, hunny?” Jane Bryner took a long drag at her cigarette, watching me with the same, untamed blue eyes of her son.

I sat there, dumbly, blinking into the stoic silence of his mother’s face, confusion bubbling over all other thoughts. I watched as Cerulean walked out of the room, disappearing behind the door. I held up a hand to object. Jane covered it with her manicured one, smiling reassuringly at me.

“It’s for the best he doesn’t hear this, I think. My son’s a little proud.” She took another deep breath of smoke. Her thoughts tore across her features, each appearing and ghosting away before they could be identified. “You know, you’ll be graduating next year.”

“Yes, Mrs. Bryner.”

“You'll both be seniors next year. Then Cerulean will go off to college.”

The thought had occurred to me before. There was a horrible sense of loneliness at the prospect, even as my heart thundered in glee: I would be free of Cerulean. “Yes, Mrs. Bryner.”

“You’ll be staying here? Working?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bryner.” I sounded like a broken record. I must have looked just as confused, my mind skipping over the possibilities, my mouth repeating the same phrase, as thought I could say nothing else. Jane didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve always hoped you’d apply and go to college.”

I chuckled dryly. “College is expensive.” A phrase right from my own mother’s mouth. We always said it a bit sadly. She would have given me the opportunity, if she could...

“Cerulean wants to go to UCLA. You like California?”

“Never been.” I started to see where this was going. Excitement and fear formed a lump in my stomach. I swallowed, swallowed again.

“You should go to college. You know, I have more money than I know what to do with.”

“You’ve always been like a mother to me, Mrs. Bryner. I can’t tell you how much a appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I...”

She held up her hand, waving it around, demanding silence with that strange gesture. “Cerulean would like you to go to California with him. I’m willing to do anything to make my son happy, anything to make you happy. I consider you one of my children. Let me do this for you.”

There was a pleading in her voice, a wild look of hope in her eyes. My objections were quickly falling away, only small stains on the picture of this solid-seeming future with Cerulean.

She knew this was a long shot.

But I wanted to go to college, didn’t I?

“But, what if Cerulean and I...”

She waved again. “I said I’d pay for it, no matter what happens between you and my son. Tell me you’ll say yes.” There was a quiet look of victory in her when I started to break down, when I began to run out of excuses. “It’ll be like a scholarship.”

That broke me.

“Could I at least pay you back in part?”

The dazzling smile drove everything else from her face. “If you promise me you’ll focus just on school and not get a job.”

"But, Mrs. Bryner..."

“Oh, you wouldn't. I wouldn't let you.” Cerulean slipped into the doorway, resting his frame across the heavy white molding. “Is it all settled?”

I looked at him in awe, my eyes widening. He’d stripped off his shirt, his skin shining like porcelain in the low, yellow lighting of the kitchen.

“It’s all settled. Now the two of you get the hell out of my kitchen.”

I stood on shaky legs, my nervous hand pulling down on the hem of my shirt. “Mrs. Bryner, there’s no way in hell I can thank you...”

But Cerulean was pulling me out of the kitchen, away from the quiet kitchen that had very suddenly changed my life. “Be quiet; she hates it when people grovel.”

“I wasn’t groveling.” I protested, weakly, allowing myself to be dragged forward up the winding stairs and to his bedroom. The room was painted a rich shade of blue with shelves upon shelves of books in various languages lining the walls. The bed was made. Mounds of gray-blue blankets were folded ornately over one another. His room was pristine.

Until he got to it.

Cerulean moved book after book to the floor, threw open his closet doors, and tossed some of his clothing onto the white carpet as I perched on the edge of his bed. He hated his room to be clean. This was a rather routine and almost ritualistic uncleaning.

I watched him, quietly, with a gentle smile touching my lips. I guess all this meant I’d be stuck with Cerulean. I wondered, my thoughts slow and lazy, if that was a good thing or not...

“Cerulean? Why did you want me to goto California with you?”

The question caught him off guard, stopping him just as he was about to reach for another handful of clothing. Turning, Cerulean favored me with a brilliant smile, light shining from the depths of his cerulean eyes. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

I was only half prepared when he launched himself at me, knocking me to the bed. I groaned under his weight and the feeling of his hands exploring the skin hidden by my shirt. Passion burned in his lips as he explored the soft skin of my neck, a fiery sweetness in his tongue. Pulling my shirt over my head, Cerulean kissed his way across my chest, dragging long, low moans from my lips.

“Please... please stop, Cerulean...” I was begging him, even as my fingers sunk into the fabric of his jeans, pulling him closer. “Please...”

He merely chuckled in response, his breath scorching across the tanned skin of my stomach. “Oh, no,” the rich, velvet laughter caressed my ears, sending shivers up the length of my spine. “You’re going to beg me for this...”

He pulled me out of the rest of my clothing, pinning me down against the sea of misty-blue sheets. I threw my head back as he touched me, teasing every inch of my skin with his skilled fingers and lips. Tears blurred my vision, running over the contours of my face as I cried out in desire, breaking down and pleading, begging for release...

That was so like Cerulean.

Anyway, I would personally like to thank TomofthePow for his reviews, both of 666 and My Sinful Blue. It's so nice that people can act in a mature fashion on this website. I'll be the first to admit, I wasn't entirely in the right when I hit you back with my review, but I am childish. And into easy revenge. ::grins wildly:: Yeah, some of you might know what I'm talking about. But anyway, for anyone who has no idea what I am talking about: TomofthePow read and left a review on my story Six Hundred and Sixty Six People You Meet in Hell. The story is a pun, written entirely for those of us with twisted senses of humor. Apparently, he thought it wasn't funny, which is fine. So he left me a review that merely says "That wasn't funny." Except without the proper punctuation. So I thought, "Well, hell, if he doesn't find my stuff funny, maybe he's written something funny!" So I looked under his name at some of his stories, but his stories labeled "Humor" weren't funny to me. So ya'll can guess what I did. I left a message under his story, Forceful Sexual Propositions by Aliens, that said "That wasn't funny either." I guess he doesn't think ANYTHING is funny, cause he didn't seem to find THAT review funny either. So he left me a review on this story, saying that "Yeah it was crap." Again, without correct punctuation. So I wanted to shout out to him, and thank him for being even less mature than I am, hitting me back with such an endearing comment. I do appreciate all the time you took to read my piece, and to comment. But a little constructive criticism would be appreciated even more.

Thanks as always for reading, everyone. (Haha, who do you think this story is about? I’ll give you five bucks if you can guess.)