He lays there. Shifting slightly as the murmurs of the night fades. The sun is bright outside the building, the blinds keeping the room cloaked in the mysterious air after our erotic encounter. The muscles of his biceps tenses, I watch him carefully. Not wanting to miss one single movement, one single breath emanating from his lips.
I sit naked on a flush red velvet chair, keeping my distance in spite of the yearning of my body. My core heats at the memories of his pants, strokes and kisses stolen by me in midst of the darkness. My beautiful lover. My hero. My enemy. My promised killer.
He's a killer. I have no shame or pride in that fact. He has promised to kill me. Over and over. But the thing is, being with him kills me slowly every day. Does he love me? No, of course not. Does he care about me? In a twisted way, he does. He cares for my body. He cares for the pleasures he can receive from me, when everyone else he knows are disgusted by his stature, his business, his face. I feel nothing for him, yet I feel the world for him. He doesn't scare me, he doesn't disgust me. He doesn't see me as a person. I am merely another object for him to posses, another symbol of status, amongst his business associates.
Then he goes and does something so very unlike him, making me wonder that maybe, just maybe he might have something in his stone cold heart. Not exactly love, but just some indescribable feeling of some sorts. Maybe the desire to possess? The desire to burn me inside out, mark me, scorch me and leave me for the world to see. Only to let them discover that I am truly his, only his. Not just for the mere moment of lust-clouded attraction, but for eternity, in his blazing gaze. He slowly awakens, although he yet has hours to go, before he has a "meeting". With a languid motion, he slips out from under the covers, walks towards me. I see his muscle tense in the chill autumn air… He looks like a feline, dangerous and sleek, ready to attack, ready to devour in an instant. My life could be over in the blink of an eye, yet I feel no fear. No palpitation of my heart nor the deep intake of air. I look at him, heady, not for the reasons you might think though. I am his opponent, his adversary and he has to win this game, to win the war with himself. He knows that, I know that. He has to break me, just like I dream of smashing him to pieces every night as he uses my body, tries to reach my mind, and needs to consume my soul.
I take him in, as he slowly approaches me. I stand up to meet him halfway. Just matching him, step by step. Inches from me, he stops. I mimic his actions and I can feel the electricity, the want, the need. The lust is in his eyes, in his every pore. Goosebumps appear on my arms as he reaches out to grab my hand, then trace his index finger up my arm, while I suck in a breath to calm my frazzling nerves. His ministrations slowly, carefully and painfully at the same time, pick up in pace and before I know it, he is backing me up, as I can feel the edge of the bed pressing the skin back of my knees. All the while, not even once do I break eye contact. He doesn't deserve to see me enjoy his movements. I might take great pleasure in his ability in bed, but as much as possible I try to keep from showing any kind of appreciation, should it be by words or actions, I still try to restrain myself. Another fact that he is aware of.
Sex with him is violent, just like expected. The way he pushes himself at me, like he wants to push me into him, to make me apart of him, to dissolve me then use me to patch himself up, is indescribable. Bruises are not uncommon, neither are bleeding patches of skin. Like I said – he likes to mark me.
The aftermath is eerily silent, he is the vulnerable child, the roles are reversed. He lets me stay with him, almost suffocates me in his sleep. Lately he has taken a liking to softly murmur "mine", just before he falls asleep, with me pressed between him and the bed like a ragdoll. The simple word makes me go rigid, makes me miss out on much needed sleep. He does it on purpose, because he knows that I'll never willingly be his, and that I'll never want him to be mine.
Tonight is different though. Just after he's finished, he leans in, his cheek brushing mine, and whispers, deadly: "One day I'm going to kill you, and while killing you, I'll slowly be killing myself."
I look up at him, wondering what got him to say it, tonight of all nights, and I know the end must be nearing for the both us. For the first time, since knowing this man on top of me, I smile a solemn, knowing smile, and reply: "Then we all win."