Vertigo
A.N. Previously titled 'Utopia'. Somehow, I think the new title fits the story much better. An older story of mine, I've decided to edit this. Take out parts I didn't like and make it better. Hopefully, I've done that. Enjoy! Also, anything you recognize does not belong to me. That includes the Tolkien and More references, as well as one attributed to Peter Steele of Type O Negative.
There had been a flood a little over five years ago; the heavy rains pouring into the slight little stream until the gentle brook had turned into a rampaging monster. The elderly remembered the quaint stream of blue as being their age-old fishing spot, that little piece of heaven in a decaying world. Hidden, secluded, it was serenity and peace combined. Until those rains came. Until those deep gray skies had let loose their torrents into an unsuspecting stream, feeding it, fueling it, leashing the fury, the monster the stream truly was.
It too had become banished from any notions of heaven and peace, just like the rest of the world. Not since the flood. Not since the disaster it had produced. Washing away ancient trees, hazy memories, God; all of it destroyed. The archaeologist inside her cried at the loss of those trees, at the stories those almost legendary giants could have told her about a time centuries gone, but even she could not deny how somehow, that flood had reproduced such beauty. Thousands of newly grown flowers lay scattered around the bank of the stream, untouched, undisturbed. New trees stood where the ancients had fallen, slender, smaller, but still capable of living up to their predecessors. Thick canopies crowned their tops, lustrous in emerald beauty. It seemed strange almost that such a haven could exist still in this world, and she plundered through it with reverence and respect, half expecting this utopia to disappear and become nothing more then a pile of dark soil surrounded by a barren space.
But the scene remained. Even as she pushed through the tall grasses that lined the edges of the banks. Even after she drifted through the sweetly smelling flower fields. It was real. It was so beautiful.
Thomas More had been correct. So had the thousands of humans who had searched in vain for that secluded sanctuary of perfection, ignoring the laughter, ignoring the mockery of the close-minded. Utopia did exist.
Utopia found.
And it was beautiful . So beautiful.
And still it wasn't enough.
God, another fight with him, one among so many, and still she couldn't stop the pain that settled over her body after each one. A numbing, freezing feeling. One that consumed her completely, until all she wanted was to go to him, throw herself at him, and apologize countless times until he was holding her against his hard body, forgiving her for being quick of wit, for standing against him when so many wouldn't. But her pride held her back, leaving her to stare stoically at him, heartless, cold, so fucking cold.
The heartless bitch.
Had words ever rang more clearly?
But even now, another battle completed, another conquest, another victory for the heartless bitches of the world, she knew she had gone too far. So fucking far. She had hurt him. It shouldn't matter, couldn't matter, but oh how it did. Ripping through her fortress protected heart, shattering the ice stone, splintering it, destroying it. She had hurt him and God how that tore through her own heart.
How had she fallen, she wondered. Fallen so hard, so fast, and for someone like him. She had always prided herself on that steel-like independence that had attached itself so viciously to her inner core, that independence that rejected any notions of love, of emotions. She was intelligence, she was sarcasm, she was archaeology and history goddess all combined. She was that hardened thing, more shell then woman, more stone then living flesh.
But oh the things he made her feel. So hot, so warm, flooded by sensations, drowning in them, luxuriant in them. She was a woman with him, so pure, so basic, acting more on primitive instinct then on rational thought. How many fantasies had plagued her because of him? How many self-inflicted orgasms had shaken her body? How many urges had haunted her? He was that thing that lurked in the back of her brain, that demon-god that controlled her. He was lethal, sex incarnate, and how badly she wanted it. How like her, she thought. How like her to play the part of the cold-hearted, bitchy archaeology major while wanting those hands that he used so often to dictate his vocal points to grab her, slam her anywhere, the bed in his room in the dorms, the wall, that mouth that said such intelligent quotations to overwhelm her, until all she could do was surrender to him. Much like her heart had already surrendered to him.
But he could ruin her. He could destroy her. And she was scared, so scared, so terrified. The cold-hearted bitch reduced to trembles and sighs. How many would give a life to see her reduced to such a state?
The hard-hearted felt pain after all.
She found a rather large rock overlooking the now long tame stream and sat on it. Tiny drops in the water-covered ground created a waterfall effect, the rushing water churning up such frothy white foam, carried away by a surprisingly strong current. Even now, nature embraced by mid-spring, that water would be frigid, its source high in the mountain range somewhere. Ice still lingered there, high up in the altitudes, and though it melted on its downward spiral to the trickling stream that ran strongly and smoothly before her, the freezing temperatures remained, locking the water in winter's lingering grip. Ice cold liquid.
Ice cold veins.
But this time, the Ice Princess couldn't hold on to that chilly façade. He had seen to that. His eyes haunted her, dark, penetrating brown eyes, and she could feel that ice that consumed her body melt. He held so much power over her, so fucking much. It was titillating, scintillating, frightening. She had performed the ultimate sacrifice, the ultimate betrayal. She had fallen in love with him.
The ultimate sin.
And she would burn for it, oh yes how she would burn. Under that smoldering gaze of his, attacked by those vivid fantasies of naked flesh and stolen breath, she would burn. He was sex, blood, fire. He was everything dark about that sensuous act of love, of pleasure, of surrender. Lust incarnate. And oh how she would tremble, how she would sigh under those large sensuous hands of his, captive beneath that large, wholly masculine body. But it was all a fantasy, bliss and frustration intertwined.
Once he had kissed her, a battle of wits and wills again playing out, this time in the Anthropology department hall, shouting insults at one another to no victory. His eyes, those dark brown eyes that could be so beautiful and clear, had clouded over. With anger, with frustration, with fire. She had thrown a book at him, a small thesaurus. She had frozen, her eyes and brain trying to make cognitive sense of the scene before her. A book, her book, paperback and harmless but no longer in her hands but instead on the floor, open and crumbled at his feet. His face drawn, the angles of his face taut, his entire body restrained. But it had been his eyes that had captivated her. So dark, so fascinating, so unreadable.
Never before had they flung anything of substance in the throes of fire, only words, always words, cruel though they usually were.
His book bag had crashed to the floor, that heavy thud resounding throughout the now empty hall, and without warning he had walked toward her. His gaze had frightened her, her brain forcing her feet to take small steps away from him, from that predatory gaze, that large body that was even now, drawing ever closer to her. He was lethal, so dangerous, but he wouldn't hit her she knew. He was too much a gentleman, regardless of their history, held too many morals to ever hit her. No, she knew what was coming, and worse, her body anticipated it, wanted it.
Far be it for him to deny her anything.
His hands reached up, had buried themselves in her hair near her temples, holding her head as his body pressed her backwards, into the wall. His mouth covered hers an explosive second later, and she was surrounded by male, by him. He kissed her like she was his own, like she was his own little passionate academic, so brilliant and yet so ready for him. And feeling him, so hard, so tall, so tightly pressed against her, feeling that mouth of his caress her own, she would have done anything for him, anything for that feeling of serenity, of completeness, of bliss to continue.
But he had pulled back, his hands remaining in her hair, his body still taut and tight against her. Her eyes slowly flickered open, catching his gaze as he stared down at her, holding it, holding her. Her lips felt cold away from his, felt swollen from his thorough kisses, but God how she wanted it again. How she wanted more. He kept his face close by hers, waiting, and she knew he was leaving it up to her. You can kiss him. You can kiss him and he won't pull away, only pull you closer. Surrender.
But her pride, her damnable pride, had held her at bay. His thumbs rubbed her temples softly, once, twice, before nodding briefly, before pulling himself away from her fully. He had been dismissed in that cold, calculating way of hers, and he knew it. He didn't look at her as he went back to his fallen book bag, picked it up. He grabbed her thesaurus, flinging it gently at her to land at her feet. And she could only stare down at it, so offensive, so fucking disgusting.
That had been a week ago, seven days, eternity. Seven days without him, even without an argument. Sometimes, walking in a hall or to class, she would catch sight of him, so tall, so proud, so fucking beautiful. And he would look at her, his eyes dark, unreadable. He would never turn away from her, always holding her gaze and she knew what he was subconsciously telling her.
You can run forever little girl. But sooner or later you'll find that you belong right here, to me, with me. You want me. You know I want you. Give in to me.
It was she who would drop her eyes, tearing herself away from that penetrating stare. A display of misplaced pride. Of fucking cowardice.
It was not like her to be a coward.
She sighed as she pushed herself off the rock, brushing off the back of her jeans with an absent hand. The wind still held the bitter remnants of a long winter and she pulled her sweater more tightly around herself, warding off that freezing chill. But somehow, she knew this chill, this biting cold would never disappear. Not without him. He was warmth. He was heat. He was salvation.
He was the only fortress she'd ever need.
If only her damn pride hadn't gotten in the way.
Slowly, she pushed through the flower field, the tall grasses, nearing the edge of the bank. Loose dirt clods protruded from the damp earth, sprigs of bright green vegetation locked tightly with the soil, and she absently kicked them into the water, watching as the forceful liquid shattered the clump, separating it, scattering it.
Such games they played, agonizing games in which no one was the victor, no one could ever come out on top. Stolen glances, a remembered kiss, caresses, God, the heat. That undeniable, smoldering heat, and the impenetrable pride that denied them peace. So haunting, so consuming that she wondered if she'd ever feel whole again, sane again. And then, as she had a million times before with the same startling clarity, she realized she never had been whole.
Until him.
He was peace, tranquility, salvation and sanity. He brought out the worst in herself, pushing her to her mental limits, fueling her, firing her, urging her to pull forth every portion, every tiny part of her intelligence in order to best him. She was wildfire in his hands, oftentimes seething, sometimes cold and impenetrable, yet always so passionate. And it terrified her, scaring her in so many more ways then she would care to admit, even to herself. She was brilliance, she was archaeology scholar epitomized. And yet, with him, she became human. God, that single-most aspect that she had forgotten, had abandoned so many times. To be human was to venture beyond rational thinking, beyond her books and facts and figures. It was primitive motives, desires, urges. It was to feel.
It was to leave one vulnerable, open. Surrendering to heartache, to pain, to agony, dear lord to love.
She sighed heavily, pushing cold hands into warm jean pockets. She let her own body heat warm her, though she continued to shiver delicately. A slight breeze, so cold, like her heart, swept past her, invisible and yet so dominant. She caught the sent of earth, that chilly, moist soil that she loved to distraction, and the glorious sensation of flowers. So sweet, so potent, so ridiculously pure. They were beauty untouched, nature unbridled. They were perfection as she watched them dance, sway with the breeze.
She had always hated flowers. They were too much an illusion. Nothing could ever be as beautiful as they were, as flawless as they were. And yet they were so fragile, so easily torn and trampled.
Much like her relationship with him.
She bent down, grasping a particularly dark colored flower in her slender palm. Silken petals of the most unusual crimson shade adorned the top, the bloody crown settled on luscious emerald green stem. She pulled gently on the fragile stalk, so strong, so fucking strong, and yet so easily broken, freeing itself from its vital roots. Gazing down at it, lying within her palm, her heart clenched and released in painful spasms as his face assaulted her in that sanctuary of hers, the mind, once so much a haven, now a traitor. Just like her body. Just like her heart.
Go to him.
It had to stop. She had to go to him, swallow that pride that even now gripped her in its tight clutches, years of habit, of ritual holding taut, unyielding. She was lost without him, so despicable a position to be in, so utterly pathetic, but truth and fact all the same.
Go to him.
She stood, moving then, walking along the same recently made path she had created when she had first arrived. With every step, every foot forward, she felt her pride diminishing, gratefully disappearing. Was this how Frodo and Sam had felt as they trekked towards Mordor, knowing the vitality and mortality of what they had to accomplish? They had not wished for glory, she remembered, for such an assignment as taking that single ring of evil back to the place of its forging, and yet they had taken it without much complaint. The fate of the world had rested on them, and they fought for the sake of the greater good.
Christ, so like her. Fighting for the greater good. For him.
So fucking like her.
The hesitant mission, the sake of her sanity, of happiness, her destiny. But God she was afraid. So afraid. More so then she ever had been before. It was so much more then just her rationality at stake, but also her heart. That precious commodity she had kept so tightly protected, so painstakingly hidden and barred, only to be revealed, unveiled. Like a sacrificial offering.
For him, she would surrender all. It was worth it, he was worth it. He made her feel human, made her feel alive. She loved him. She had faced that truth so long ago, so long ago during one fight or another. And she needed him so badly.
Go to him.
She went.
Her breathing had become ragged.
Locked within the slowly rising elevator, those large doors coming together to seal her within its tomb-like chamber, she felt her breath hitch in her throat, panic grip her heart as it paused its vital beats. Quickly, the beating resumed, so fast, so hard against her chest, thrumming loudly in her ears. She grasped the metal handles on the sides of the small moving room, breathing deeply, calming herself. She sighed shakily, heavily, and closed her eyes momentarily, the sudden darkness that greeted her senses securing her somehow.
She felt the elevator come to a complete stop, heard the sliding on metal on smoothed metal as the doors opened. She opened her eyes, forced her fingers to loosen their deathly grips on the handles, using them as momentum to push herself forward. She stumbled out of the door into the hallway and she cautiously moved forward. So many doors, each one a faded white, made more so by the gorgeous dark green of the walls. Here was the hall famed to house the university's football team, this floor dominated by the monstrous muscle men. Their team colors splashed vividly from every available surface, from the dark green walls to the cream satin-like cushions. It was their haven of a sort, a sports laden paradise for the football induced. She felt like an intruder, a marauder, yet she pressed on. She felt her senses come alive, overwhelming her. Vaguely she heard water running from the bathroom down the hall, heard deep laughter from behind one door and the blatant blare of sound from a television in another. But not a sound was coming from his room. There was only silence.
And instead of placating her, it only terrified her more.
She paused before his door, hesitating only briefly before knocking once, twice, sharply. The dull sounds seemed to echo throughout her body, so pronounced. Her breathing picked up again and she fought it, forcing her own body to obey her command.
Open the door. Please just open the damn door.
But no one came.
She knocked again, louder, harder. She waited, her attuned senses searching for sounds of movement, sounds of breathing, anything that would let her know he was there. But still nothing. God, there was nothing.
Slowly, she turned from the door, her slender shoulders slumped, her head slightly bent, her eyes focused on the filthy carpet. Vaguely she heard the sounds of approaching male laughter and chatter, and inwardly she groaned. Already tears were gathering in her eyes, but her pride held them back. She had left her heart on the floor in front of his door, had swallowed her pride enough for her to come to him, but she'd be damned if she'd let anyone ever see her cry. She had only resumed moving, back toward the elevator, back toward her misery when she heard a door hinge squeak.
"Rhiannon? Is that you?"
God it was him, him with his voice so deep, so husky, so sensual. Her heart raced, as though she had run for 20 miles, as though it were dancing its own little dance, swift and so fast-paced. Slowly, so slowly, she turned to face him, and, felt her heart, that same organ that had beat so fucking fast only seconds ago, stall completely. He stood in the doorway, filling it completely with his immense height, one hand against the door, propping him up. He was naked from the waist up, his dark jeans riding low on his hips, the waistband caressing smooth, taut, muscled flesh. His chest, so defined, so beautiful, his shoulders so broad. His brown eyes were dark with sleep, the angles of his face showing hints of stubble. He was shirtless, shoeless, but for some reason he wore a backwards baseball hat on top his head, the black material resting halfway down his forehead.
So fucking gorgeous.
He was looking at her, a dark eyebrow raised, his body relaxed. He moved his arm from the door, crossing them across his chest, sleek and beautiful muscles bunching and clenching in harmony and perfection.
She realized only then that he was waiting for an answer. She opened her mouth, unsure of what she could possibly say. The first thought that entered her mind tumbled out before she could stop it.
"Why on earth are you wearing a baseball hat if you just woke up?"
She watched as both eyebrows quirked upwards, his eyes growing light, a smile playing on his sensual lips.
He motioned her inside his room; acutely aware of the stares she was receiving from several of the hall residents as they paused in their movements to openly stare slack-jawed at her. Entranced by his smile, she remained blissfully unaware. She allowed him to reach out, gently take her slight hand, engulfing it in his own much larger one, pulling her into the room. He closed the door behind him, dropping her hand, watching her hips sway sensuously, gracefully. His bed was unmade, her knocks having woken him from a deep slumber, but she ignored the lure of the black cotton covered bed. Instead she walked to his desk, running her fingers along the binds of thick books. Prehistory, Geology, ancient environments, ancient animals, anatomy, all essential to the paleontologist he was training to become.
"Isn't it a bit strange how humans assume we are, and originated, as perfect beings?" She asked him, pulling down a particularly large book and opening it to a random page.
Intrigued by her comment, he sat himself on the bed, his eyes skimming the room for his long ago abandoned shirt.
"How so?" he asked, giving up all hope of finding it, knowing then he must have tossed it into the closet sometime before falling into such a deep sleep.
"People are programmed to see themselves as perfection. It is perfectly logical to assume that birds are the descendents of dinosaurs, that evolution brought forth such necessary changes so as to allow these creatures to continue living in a rapidly changing world, perfectly logical to acknowledge that even today, evolution is continuing, producing better models so to speak. Yet speak of the human being in such a manner, to have the audacity to say that human beings were not perfect, but evolved that way, and it becomes, quite essentially, almost blasphemous."
He lay back on the bed, folding his hands beneath his head.
"But is that not the irony of the world Rhiannon? All creatures can evolve save humans. All creatures can continually grow and exist through changes, but a human was and remains perfect. Never minding of course, the simple fact that humans are quite possibly the most disastrous and fault-ridden species this world has ever seen."
"Do you think we're a mistake Royce? Humans evolved yes, and what did we create? One of the first introductions we created once we established a civilization was religion. And we use that religion to justify our actions, our words, while really, we're hypocrites. Protect the poor, yet rob them of every cent they had. Middle Ages is a prime example of that. Do such and such else you go to hell. Who gave them that authority Royce? To say what is a sin or not, to say what is necessary for us to go to heaven or hell, that's taking the Lord's word into our own hands is it not? That's blasphemy. We sin, we kill, we wage war, and yet somehow we're perfect.
"And you Rhiannon. Are you perfect?"
She smiled slightly, paging softly through the book in front of her.
"Christ no. I make mistakes, just as any person does I suppose. I'm heartless, I can be rather cruel, I'm often more involved with my history then I am with the real world." She took a deep breath. "And I hurt people sometimes, hurt the people that in reality, mean so much to me."
And there was the crux of her visit, her seemingly random point of conversation. He sat up, his elbows on his thighs; legs spread apart, his hands clasped loosely in between, gazing at her.
"What a piece of work is man!" He quoted softly. She smiled briefly, looking up at him for the first time.
"I think that perhaps Hamlet would have made a fine psychologist. He certainly had mankind right down, every nook, every cranny, every fault."
"Hamlet, in case you forget, could have been considered to be almost insane."
"Insanity is in the eye of the beholder Royce. To most, Hamlet could appear justified in his manner and his actions due to the circumstances of his father's death and his mother's remarriage to his uncle."
"Sane to the insane then is that it?"
"Why not? It certainly does seem to make sense does it not? We're all, to some point or another, insane. We all do things that may seem a little crazy, that may seem a little bit...questionable."
"Such as?"
"What about craving another person so much, one will resort to someone who treats them like trash? What about missing someone so badly, you sleep with a tee-shirt of theirs, a blanket, anything? Calling someone when you know you should stay away, following the group when individuality is needed. In some way, any psychologist can pick apart those actions and analyze them. Acceptance, love, all those emotions that make a person truly human. But you want to know the most truly insane thing a person can do Royce?"
"What's that baby?"
She sighed heavily, moving to the window, staring out at a fast falling sun.
"Turning your back on the one person who can bring all those emotions out. Turning your back on the one person who treats you like the woman you are, like the person you are, who appreciates your intelligence, your desires. Picking fights, and then, when you have the chance to erase the pain and bitterness of the past, you refuse to do so because of your pride. Fucking pride can you believe that? That's insanity Royce. That's true insanity."
He stood from the bed, walking to her, his bare feet on the tiled floor creating a soft thud, a more pronounced sound in the dead silence.
"That's not insanity Rhinannon," he told her, his breath on her neck, his body heat seeping into her own form, his body mere centimeters from her own. "That's fighting against a change. Pride has a way of taking hold of the brain, dominating it, and then preventing it from making and changes in the future. It takes effort to erase that pride, and even then it's not fully gone."
She scoffed lightly. "Of course it is. When a person's pride is taken, their existence is lessened. It's pride that saves us from humiliation, pride that saves us from making a mistake. Without it I suppose we have nothing to live for."
"You really believe that?"
"Yes, I do," she said, her voice firm, hard, unyielding.
"Then why are you here?" he whispered in her ear, softly, so sweetly, so seductively, her eyes closed, her lips parted.
"I'm human. I make mistakes. And I know when I've made one that needs mending. But I'll never lose my pride," she stated, turning to face him, finding him even closer then she had previously thought. His hands, so large and warm, cupped her jaw, slipping around her neck to tangle in the silken golden-brown curls that rested so beautifully against her skin.
"But you'll swallow it enough to come here."
It was not a question.
"To come to you," she amended for him.
"To come to me," he whispered. "Why?"
"Maybe I realized that my pride may save me from time to time, may even pull me out of a problem or two. But it can't make me happy. It can't make me…human. It can't love me. And I cannot love it."
He looked down upon her, her emerald green eyes dark. Her hair fell away from her gorgeously feminine face as she gazed up at him, his hands still holding her toward him. Something about that struck him, possessively, commandingly, and he thrilled in it. He had her in his hands, this passionate little academic with her tall body, slender, but curved, so close to pressing fully against him. He held her, and her heart, in his palms, this one with fire, with spirit, with willpower. She was his own courageous archaeologist, never showing fear, only a steel-like backbone and a sense of sarcasm that had made many grown men tremble and wince. She was a fighter, yet she was compassionate, loving, respectable. Such pride she had, pride that could and would often-times force her to appear cold and heartless. But he knew it for what it was. Pride. Nothing more. She was too passionate to be heartless, much too warm to be cold.
He'd have her no other way.
She closed her eyes then, in surrender, in relaxation, and he felt her angling her cheek to better fit his palm. God but she was beautiful. So beautiful. She was all he could think about, this hellfire woman. Some women tried to be with him by pretending to be helpless, being coy and simpering. He often looked at them with sincere disgust. She needed no one. Yet now, she needed him, wanted him.
It was an exhilarating emotion.
Such imperfection combined, such beauty with intelligence. Glaring at him with desire, with love, with anger, Christ, all of it so breathtaking, so wondrous. There had been times when he had registered in some far off corner of his brain that perhaps the Rubens' and the Rembrandts' of the world had been wrong with their depiction of Greek goddesses. They had been too perfect, too beautiful to be real. It was Rhiannon, shaking with anger or repressed desire, who had become a goddess, Athena, perhaps, personified.
Hear me Zeus as I hold Athena's face in my palms, the gorgeous goddess, the eternal virgin, a virgin no more at my hands and body.
"I came to say I'm sorry Royce," she whispered, eyes still closed so tightly, nuzzling into his palm, turning minutely to kiss it. He tugged on her gently, slipping his hand to cup her neck, pulling her head against his chest. She went against him willingly, eagerly, sighing with pleasure as his arms folded around her. Even though she was herself, a tall woman, her head only reached the middle of his chest, and she lay her head against it, nuzzling the bare, warm male flesh. Coarse hair tickled her cheek, and slowly, so slowly, she skimmed her hand across the expanse of his muscled chest, his broad shoulders, trailing fingers through the hair that lay in a rather thin layer. He was so sexy, so fucking gorgeous, and he was so damn wide, she felt dwarfed next to him, small and fragile. But instead of feeling scared and defensive, as her logic dictated she would, she felt safe, protected. He was a god among men, a haven among hell.
Somehow, in the space of when he tilted his angled face down to look at her, to say something to her, their lips met in a clash of heat and desire. Whatever he had been about to say fled his thoughts, until only she was constant, only she remained real. Her slender hands reached up for his jaw, feeling the muscles relax and contort as he kissed her, slipped to his neck, slipping fingers into the tiny dark brown hairs. Large hands, calloused from penning hundreds of school papers, thumbing through thousands of pages, digging in the soil for bones, clues, slid down her back, slipped beneath her black tee shirt to caress the bare skin beneath.
Silk and fire.
Lust eternal.
I'm melting in her silhouette by the flickering light of burning dreams.
Dark goddess. Lusty enchantress. Beauty personified. Fire in his hands, melting, smoldering.
He settled a hand on the small of her back, pulling her even closer to him, melting her into him. Her hands slid over her skin, feeling, growing bolder with every caress, every second. He kissed her forcefully, fully claiming her, and she moaned. His fingers grasped the edge of her shirt, lifting...lifting. In only a moment, the bare space of a breath, it became litter on the floor, forgotten and unimportant. His hands cupped her full cotton-covered breasts, so glorious and full, spilling over his hands even in their confinement. His mouth left hers, trailing down the satin of her neck, her collarbone. Fire took hold of her, fueling, burning, scorching.
"I came to say I'm sorry Royce," she panted, repeating her words to him.
Burning.
"Rhiannon…" he mumbled, his mouth hot and wet against her breast.
God so good.
"I like you Royce," she gasped out as his mouth closed around a hardened nipple, simmering through the cotton fabric.
"Maybe even…" she groaned as his mouth covered hers once more, cutting off her words.
"Maybe even what Rhiannon?' he asked, pulling away a fraction, his hands roaming her body, her thoughts becoming jumbled and disoriented.
"Maybe even…" he kissed her again, his hand slipping between her legs, cupping her through her jeans. She gasped as a spark of pure pleasure ripped through her, feeling him smile at her reaction in a blatantly male satisfaction.
"Maybe even what? Tell me Rhiannon."
He kissed along her jaw line, his tongue flickering along the delicate and sensitive shell of her ear. Shaking with the intensity of her desire, she abandoned her quest of proclamation and love, and focused solely on the pleasure coursing throughout her body.
"I want you Royce," she whispered smoothly, seductively, pushing against his chest, releasing her from his hold. She pushed him gently, the backs of his knees hitting the bed and he willingly fell backwards, rising up on strong elbows to look at her. She walked over to him, hips swaying, her hands reaching behind to unclasp her bra. Slowly, teasingly, she slid the straps down slender arms made tan from countless hours outdoors, kicking her shoes off at the same time. She stood between his open legs, looking down at him, emerald eyes hot and dark with heavy desire, pulling away that cotton confinement. And she was beautiful, so beautiful as his heart began to pound in want, in need. She slid one knee beside a thigh, straddling him, settling herself on his lap. Immediately, he pushed his elbows off the bed, sitting up, searching for her lips and finding them with a force that took her breath away. He kissed her briefly, once, twice before lowering his head, his mouth wide and hot over one breast. Her head tilted back, her fingers sought his hair, encountered his backwards baseball hat, threw it off before sinking her fingers into coarse, dark brown hair. It hit the wall with a soft thud, falling onto the bed, forgotten, as heavy breathing filled the room. She moaned as he shifted to the other nipple, adding to the sensual symphony. His hands molded her body, sliding along her slender waist, her full hips, grasping her thighs.
She pulled on his hair, slightly, delicately, but obediently he pulled away from her revenged breasts, glancing at them briefly. Proud, erect, the nipples were swollen, so hard, so fucking arousing. She felt him, separated only by jeans, teasing and seductive. She kissed him quickly, her tongue slipping inside his mouth, before pulling away, standing again before him. His arms remained around her, his hands on her hips, as he looked up at her. Smirking slightly, she ran her hands over his arms, sliding over sinuous muscles bunching with restraint, over his enormous hands. Gently she pried them from her body, dropping them in his lap as she took a step back from him. He made no move to stop her, kept his eyes focused solely on hers, dark and intense.
She unbuttoned her jeans, pushing them down long, slender legs, and God when had soft blue boy shorts ever been so sexy on a woman? Slowly, so slowly it was as close to torture as he had ever been, she slipped those off too, until she was exposed to him, naked before him in splendor, in beauty.
Greek goddess.
His hands sought her hips again. This time she allowed him to bring her close to him again, his legs apart to create a haven for her. He kissed her stomach, his mouth wide, lord a brand of fire on sensitive skin that burned. Trailed down, skimming her abdomen, his fingers kneading the flesh of her hips, kissed that spot that yearned for his touch the most. She filled his mouth with her taste, and like a man without drink for days, weeks, he licked at her, sucked at her. He moved one hand, burying it in between her legs, one long finger delving deep into her. His tongue flicked at her as his finger moved, back and forth, ramming, inserting, fucking. Until her harsh pants filled the room. Until she was coming, coming around his finger, into his mouth. Her head tilted forward, watching his dark head move continuously, and had there ever been anything more seductive, more arousing then seeing this gorgeous specimen of a man between her legs, under her own feminine power? Her legs shook as she fought to stand with whatever shred of rationality, whatever shard of control she still possessed. He was licking, stroking, still touching her so deeply, so fully, her body felt weak, detached from her mind.
"Please Royce," She begged, trembling at the force of another orgasm. He paused briefly, pulling away, looking up at her. She bit her lip, her chest heaving, her body warm and languid. Unexpectedly, he grabbed her thighs, pulling them apart, slipping tongue back into her, stroking, smoothing, until she came again. She cried out, quaking, trembling.
And it was all so fucking good.
She fell to her knees before him, humble, submissive. He leaned down to kiss her, cupping her jaw with one hand, his other tangled in her silken hair. He felt her fingers skim the skin above the waistband of his jeans, felt one dip beneath it, making the muscles, so rock solid beneath hot skin, clench in pleasure. His head tilted, kissing her more deeply, and it was she who pulled away, smirking at him, a temptress's smile, a goddess's beacon. He lifted his hips slightly as she unbuttoned his jeans, tugging them down his legs, his boxers sliding with the denim. She flung them behind her, leaving them to lie with the rest of the abandoned clothing, unnoticed and long forgotten. He was so large in front of her, that part of him so long and thick, and so ridiculously sensual. Gently, she grasped in her palm, closing her fingers around that widest part of him, smiling softly as he quietly moaned. Her tongue snaked out, skating across the tip of him, once, twice, engulfing him into the warm cavern of her mouth. She sucked gently, circling the tip with her tongue, feeling him harden, feeling him thicken, even as she took more of him into her mouth.
On her knees in front of him, naked, beautiful, warm and yielding, teasing him, tantalizing him beyond comprehension. He had known somehow that she would never be like one of those girls, the girls who giggled, who played grown up games with a child-like mind, who would lay there as a man would fuck them, knowing their woman's body could sate him, but their lack of intelligence would only drive them away. Rhiannon was too bold, too dominant in her independence to ever let another person have full control. Yet she was still before him, on her knees, submissive and attending.
He recognized the gift for the rarity, the priceless quality that it was.
His hands tangled in her hair, pulling gently, softly, and he slipped from her mouth, fully hard, incredibly swollen. He glistened where her mouth had been, throbbed as her hand remained around him, gently pumping him with tantalizing strokes.
"I want you so fucking badly baby," he murmured, his voice rough, deep, sexy.
"Take me then. You know I'm yours Royce," she whispered to him, placing her hands on his thighs, still on her knees before him.
His. God that such an intoxicating feeling. His, only his. Exactly as she should be. His woman, his lover, his life. He pulled her up, and she sat on his lap, slender thighs wrapped around a strong, lean waist. He kissed her deeply, sensuously hot, as he nudged her with his thick flesh, hard and full from unfulfilled pleasure. She moaned into his mouth, arching her back, rewarded with the feel of him slipping into her a fraction more. He moved, turning over, his body hot and heavy over hers. Slowly, so slowly, he slid into her, filling her, stretching her, completing her. He moved slightly and she whimpered, clutching the smooth, rippling muscles of his arms.
Aching.
Yearning.
He was in deep, so deep, but oh God more. She wanted more. She pushed him onto his back, settled herself on his lap and lowered her taut body down to his. He surged into her so deeply, so fully she couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She moved, her breath catching in her throat. He thrust upwards, meeting her body, filling her to completeness, so tantalizing, so completely fulfilling. His hands drifted to her breasts, teasing the swollen mounds, squeezing, gently pulling as she moved on top of him, retreating, sinking, silken glides of hard and wet flesh coming together in passion, in lust. Tiny moans slipped from between her lips, harsh pants swept throughout the room, male and female combining, lingering.
More.
He sat up then, kissing her fiercely, consuming, his hands on curved hips that moved so sensuously over him. Guided her in her movements, gasped when she tightened her inner muscles, every ridge, every bump, every part of his thrusting shaft magnified, intensified as she sank down on him. He groaned out her name, thrusting faster, harder. Her breasts shook enticingly in front of him, her head tossed back in abandon as she rode him, swiveling her hips, connecting with him in that primitive way. He watched her beneath heavy lidded eyes, pumping back with force, with need, want, giving her all. He kissed her neck, licked her collarbone, her breathing erratic and harsh. He slid his hand between them, rubbing her, teasing her, until she was coming, coming so hard, so furious. Her body tightened around him, pulling him into her, deeper, hotter, wetter. So scorching, so blissfully wet and tight around him. She was magnificent in the throes of her passion, her long golden-brown hair tumbling down her back in satin waves, her eyes so dark and gorgeous. Sitting on top of him, her body languid, she was beauty personified, goddess of lust and pleasure.
He moved faster, his own release so close, so attainable. Shuddering slightly, he gripped her around the waist, pulling her close to him, snuggled safe and tightly against his chest as he came into her, emptying his soul into her, his hopes, his dreams, himself. She was his goddess, receiving him, atoning him for his sins in return. Gently, she cupped his jaw with both hands, kissing him sweetly, deeply, loving the taste of him, the feel of him. His large hands slid up and down her back, soothing and reassuring.
Serenity.
He fell back on the bed, his body still locked tightly with hers. She lay on top of him, snuggled into his broad chest, scattering kisses along his shoulders and collarbone in a lazy fashion. His hand tangled in her hair, rubbing, soothing, his other rested lightly on the small of her back. His thumb brushed her skin, so soft and delicate, like warm silk as he moved, pinning her beneath him. Long fingers slid beneath her jaw, tilting it, his mouth colliding with hers, explosive and consuming.
"I find myself in love with you," she murmured into his mouth. He kissed her deeper, harder as her words penetrated his desire-saturated brain.
"I know," he said as he pulled back, breathing heavily. She narrowed her eyes at him momentarily.
"You know," she stated flatly.
"Of course I do. You wouldn't have come to me otherwise. And you wouldn't be here with me," he moved a bit, sending himself deeper into her body, "if you hated me."
"No."
"No?" he raised an eyebrow.
"No," she confirmed. "I've decided I hate you."
He smirked, wholly masculine, entirely powerful. He bent his head, nudging a still swollen breast with his lips, teasing it, before enveloping the tip of it into his warm mouth. She sighed shakily before running her hands down his thick, solid arms.
"That's cheating," she grumbled. But she made no move to stop him. He moaned an answer, a vibration that swept throughout her body, bringing her to pulsing awareness. He moved then, hard again, surging into her again.
So deep.
Thrusting so fast.
When he came, his body slammed into hers, pumping himself into her, filling her with himself. His hands sought hers, his fingers tangled with her own. She came around him soon after, squeezing, tight. A sensation he could experience so many times and never have it be enough. His face disappeared into her neck, his body shaking as he struggled to regain his regular breathing
"I'm glad you came Rhiannon," he whispered into her neck before moving, slipping out of her, pulling her to him. He snuggled against him, back to chest, his arm draped around her waist. He kissed her neck, her jaw, and she smiled faintly.
"I think," he nipped her earlobe, 'that I find myself in love with you too."
She turned her head, meeting his lips with her own.
"I know," she grinned, pulling away from him slightly. He smiled back, his hand rubbing little circles on her stomach. He drifted off into a deep sleep, the smile still on his sensual lips, his arm still tightly around her. She traced his fingers with her own, skimming large hands, tracing a wide palm. She felt safe here, wrapped within his arms, serene and beautiful. She was where she wanted to be.
Utopia found.