[m] - blackbird singing in the dead of night

Alaine Winters · 01-23-2011, 03:48 AM

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table © Mel
SoSuWriMo: 333

Her body was a wild thing, a creature born of cool air and whispering wind. His fingers, fire and ice, stirred her blood to sensual frenzy - Each thrust melting them together, until she had no conscious thought but the feel of him beneath her demanding hands, the scent of him that overwhelmed her. In his embrace, the darkness could not reach her, and that which resided within her was blinded by the potency of this joining. It was meant to happen here; She could not explain it, but she knew it within her bones.

Gentle curves, meek enough to be of beauty but not of voluptuous perfection, bucked against hard muscles and dark coffee fur. There was a building within her, and she urged him to fulfill it, fingers tangling in dark tresses and glazed emerald searing in the darkness. The air around them was bitterly cold, but she felt nothing that was not him, thought nothing that was not him. She loved him here, and now, with all the remaining pieces of her heart. No sense of urgency forced them upwards; the connection wished to linger, as though they might pretend it to be endless, not as fleeting as fate may have it. Even with that looming promise of finality, Alaine could feel no fear; could feel nothing that was not him. This was the way they had been created, to fit together, to create alone what life they dared.

Breath swelled in her lungs, was panted back out in a puff of white. Back arched against the ground, bringing him closer, deeper. The night smothered them, a fake world, their own world; the stars had been stolen and placed in her eyes.

A sheer elation flooded her bones, her blood, her mystical flesh. The woman cried out, her sound swallowed by darkness. Nails bit into the thick fur and muscle of his back, not wanting to harm, but unable to refrain as the electricity glowed brightly within her.

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