I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
She comes undone at the slightest touch and it takes all of his effort to not show his glee. Instead, he buries his head into her mane and breathes hard, exhaling in large gasps that come across as passion and unbridled desire rather than the more accurate thrill of the chase. “You are mine,” he repeated, the possessive nature of it racing through his veins, riding along the edge of his hunger. “You are mine,” he says again just because it feels good, although he softens his voice, blurs the intensity of it.
He is glad she is beautiful, because it makes this easier.
It is easier to stomach this portrayal of complete adoration for something easy on eyes. Were she hideous, he would have had to work harder—would have had to fight his natural instincts. She, however, is pretty, and he does not mind the taste of her flesh salt on his tongue and the lightening of her mane it billows around the velvet of his nose. She would be perfect if she were to have green eyes, he muses, but the blue will do. Some day, he will find a green-eyed beauty.
For now, he has Rhae. He would always appreciate her for being the first.
“Come with me,” he says under his voice, rather enjoying the parallel to the last interaction when he had not asked softly, but demanded that she run. Now, he curls a metaphorical finger at her, coaxing her along; it is a different kind of control, but control is control—no matter whether he demands it with the Fear and the supernatural speed racing through his veins or commands it with the soft words.
“I have something to show you,” he promises under his breath, moaning as he peeled away, as if stepping away for even a second made him ache. “Please,” he asks softly, waiting for her to join him.
