Behind closed doors two people kissed. An intoxication of lust and the strings of desperation holding the weight of today. A small window slanted above, casting a white shadow on their attire. The beam of light gazed upon the hurried lovers.
A finger trailed down the slope of a shaded neck and latched onto metal. The fabric slid to the floor in a forgotten pool of sorrow. A breathless whimper arose. His moan of relief echoed eerily as she loosened his tie. She brushed down the hollow of his throat. Her nail carefully traced a thin white scar on his left shoulder. He shivered.
He gripped her hips tighter. Using strength that she found appalling beneath the lanky frame, he hitched her on his waist. Her breath whooshed out at the familiar tingling in her stomach, the spike in her blood. She kissed him again. Teeth clashed and lips bruised but there was something calming in the fact that he didn't act as if she was breakable. She was used to the gentleness, cherished that someone could make her feel like glass. This was not one of those times. But if she closed her eyes, it was much easier to imagine it.
Lips attacked the smooth expanse of her throat. He groaned at the sensation of the heated silk. Rolling his hips, he called silently. She gasped.
A flurry of lips erupted. There were no teasing licks or cautious touches. The heady sensation became almost too much for him.
"I need you," he breathed. The deep baritone hummed her skin, grazed every crevice in her body. The ache pulsed with deep longing. He sheathed himself inside her.
A touch of lips. The grip of hands. Long limbs tangled.
They moved in a hard rhythm. Her back hit the wall with each thrust and she basked in the scraping of pleasure. He panted, drawing in the aroma of her skin and the scents of sex.
Her fingers moved. They pushed the coat off his shoulders and unbuttoned more of the dark shirt underneath. The muscles of his chest rippled as she skimmed past, drawing the fabric off his arm. His eyelashes squeezed even tighter, his stomach shuddering as she touched dangerously close.
He quickened his movements, hoping to God that he could reach that peak. He couldn't remember wanting something so much, couldn't remember aching for someone this much.
"Please," his voice whispered. The desperate plea straining deep in his throat. The underlying hunger hitting her with surprising force that made her keep her eyes closed. He reached down in between them and circled her with a delicate touch. The mix of his brutal thrusts and the gentle brush had her seeing black. She cried out. He let loose with a guttural moan and heaved in deep breaths. Laying his head on her shoulder, he rode the wave.
The woman stopped in the throes of passion. A voice that she knew all too well, that burned her skin with every look he had given her. She heard his voice now. When she walked into the room of their family today, they played video's of his childhood. She watched as his youthful face caught in a laugh moved across the screen in a snapshot. Tears clawed at her eyes now, as she remembered the video of two boys with a shock of black hair blow out their candles. Their family saw as he waved when he got his diploma, his brother waiting for him on the stage. The room had gone deathly silent at the pictures of their wedding splaying across the screen.
Their vows. Their promises. Their kiss.
The final picture was of the whole family. She was in the center, eyes lightened with happiness, while her husband stood with a lovesick grin to her right. They had only eyes for each other. Dressed in the same fashion as he, minus the breast pocket and ring, he stood to her right. Two of the same, people used to say.
Her eyes snapped open and saw those familiar grey eyes blink open. She could almost imagine the memories that they had hiding behind the smoky iris. She wanted him to graze his knuckles down her cheek. And longed for him to place the sweetest of kisses on the spot where her shoulder and neck met. She'd die to hear him whisper his love for her.
But she knew that he wouldn't because this was neither the man she married, nor the one she had fallen in hopeless love for. This man that looked identical to her husband with the beautiful grey eyes was not.
She tightened her hand on his brother's shoulder so she could step down. For that one moment, the ring, the object of her husband's love for her, glowed so brightly from the window. But neither her, nor the man before her, had noticed.
They had to get ready for a wake.
Lady of Sorrow 7/10/11
A/N: A memoir of sorts.
© 2011 by knownkonvict