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Before you are within your own space, I have already made it mine. It's become a habit, I'm afraid, to slip into the shadows of your room before you open the door. A quick glamour to conceal, back against the stone near the foot of your bed.
I'm quite partial to the view from here, for when you sleep you cross diagonally across the mattress. From here, I can see all of you.
In your own company your pretense drops, your face relaxing into sullen blankness. You peel the armor off your body, no rhyme or reason in which pieces you pick, leaving it all in a careless pile to be dealt with in the morning.
The remainder of your clothes, smallclothes and all, is dragged off your frame. You bask for a moment as cool air kisses your breathless, sweat-tinged skin. You stretch your arms over your head, the swell of your breasts following the movement. My eyes trace the curve of muscle down your ribs. How I wish my fingers could follow down the length of your belly, then slip between your thighs.
A bath is first, quickly drawn and quickly taken. You would soak there for eternity if you could, but the leisure draws you into dreams of a different life, and those are the most difficult to wake up from.
But I know you, my dear, and somewhere within you do dream those dreams. In a different life, where you had the luxury of not bearing the weight of the world on your shoulders, your imagination was endless. It is the very nature of your soul to do so, that trait painted upon you. Your seat may have been the traveler's, but I know you best. I see you as the dreamer you are.
Toweling is a rushed affair, done with such haste that you rub away any modicum of sensuality. Such a waste, really. Had you allowed me to do so, it would have been the course aperitif. I would not spare an inch of your body; I would taste the water upon your skin, paint each inch of you with my tongue.
Your fingers are your comb, and just as quickly as you had donned the towel, it is tossed aside onto your dresser chair. Some nights, the fortuitous ones, you'll then open the window and sit in the windowsill, not a care given for how bare you are to the world. There, the stars enrapture you, holding your attention in ways I would once envy. I asked you once why. You said you liked to imagine that we weren't alone. I suppose that part of you, the one that sees distant worlds and wonders, will never change.
Tonight it seems I am blessed, as you let the night breeze in and climb up to your perch. You fold your body into itself, chin resting upon your arms, eyes raised to the heavens. The lingering water upon your skin begins to evaporate as the wind toys across it, drifting your hair across your shoulders. Are the strands just as soft as I remember them, I wonder?
I am content to lean against the wall and watch as you never once look away. I am not privy to the thoughts you have in this lifetime, to my great regret. You were too hidden from me for too long, behind the blessing of your wretched Mother. It was only when the Allag child pulled upon your soul did I see you, wrenched as you were across dimensions.
Of all your shards, this one is the one I cherish the most. Each one bears a similarity to you, of course - this one your stubbornness, that one the nervous twist of your hands, another one the full-bodied smile of your laugh. But this shard, the original, with each calamity she becomes you. There is such a bittersweet joy in building you again, one layer at a time. A blood price paid, in exchange for the entirety of you. It once drove me to madness, this price, but time is the antithesis of guilt, and has left only apathy behind.
Do not misunderstand me though, my dear. I have loved each part of you, each iteration, each rebirth. In it's own way, it has been a small gift to see you live a thousand lives twelvefold. The things you have accomplished, the dreams you have seen to fruition. Perhaps even eternity would not have afforded you such.
Forgive me, darling, as my reasons are entirely selfish. I can no longer bear to watch another sliver of you slip through my arms into into Death's embrace instead. My soul can no longer bear this burden.
I digress.
I am quite impressed this time with you, my dear. The ferocity, the adamant resolve, and yet the depth of the crinkle at the edge of your eyes when you smile - the other fragments of your soul have felt paler this time, while this one swells, nearly opaque. Hidden as you were I thought you resting, and allowed myself the same reprieve upon my death as Solus. If only I had known.
When you finally shift from the window, your skin has pebbled from the air, your hair nearly dry. Nimbly you crawl from your post only to collapse onto your bed, limbs splayed as you blink at the ceiling above you. Your exhale is weary, and you try to rub an ache out of one shoulder.
Your eyes close for so long that I wonder if you have fallen asleep. Perhaps, I wonder, I will not have the fortune of witnessing the pleasure of your body this evening. I promise that lust is not all I desire of you, but I am simply a man starved.
Your fingers drift across your hips, lazy yet hesitant, as if you require convincing. Your knees open, I exhale at the sight. Your touch is gentle at first, slow, your body needing to be coaxed awake. You draw circles upon yourself, one hand wandering across your skin, imitating a lover's touch. To see you want, to be eager to provide, and yet be forbidden - it is maddening, threatening to unhinge my resolve.
Soft little moans leave you, but I know you best darling. In the true depths of your pleasure you are lost, but here, I see the threads binding you to your own consciousness. It is effort, after all, to slip your fingers inside yourself, to mimic the strokes I would gladly lavish upon you.
The rise of your chest, your knees sliding up as your toes curl into the sheets. Wet fingers fucking.
Exquisite.
My blood sears at the scene before me. Little twitches pinprick throughout your body, a muscle in your jaw works. The wet, primal sounds of you within yourself bring with them your musk on the air. The cloth of my trousers strain. Your face becomes serene yet utterly concentrated, your focus upon your own pleasure and nothing else.
Those threads still bind you to this world. I would have them cut to let you freefall, but alas, I am resigned to the fate of simply observing.
The climax of your solo show, performed unknowingly for one, approaches.
A warbling moan leaves your lips, and I watch as each shred of tension within your body morphs into rapture. You sink into your sheets, head thrown back, and allow pleasure to whisk you away for a few, painfully brief moments.
Your chest rises and falls until your breath evens, until you return to this earth.
Most nights you come to, just long enough to crawl under the covers. You've always preferred the hug of cloth; like a warm embrace, you'd say. Tonight is a rare exception. Minutes pass but you do not move, evening into the steady, deep pace of sleep. Your legs lie open, thighs slick, and I find myself where the paths of respect and lust meet. A line drawn in the sand waits for me to cross it.
Forgive me, my darling, as I could not withhold myself. I am a man parched for you. I approach you slowly, willing silence into every step, until my knees press against the bed and the sweet slit of your folds are inches away. I wait.
You heartbeat is slow, your breathing even. I start upon the peak, grazing down your clit. I savour each movement, the way you coat my fingers, the way your folds split for me. My heart leaps with abandon when I press my fingers into you ever so slightly. I close my eyes, memorizing the feel of your fluttering walls. This moment, after all, may be all I would have in this lifetime of yours, and I would do well to cherish it.
It is a gargantuan effort to pull away from you. My blood sings to touch you, to take you, to gift upon you pleasures that would melt away every ounce of tension in your spine.
Guilt does touch my conscience for a few moments. It is not in my nature to take you unknowingly. But as I touch my fingers to my tongue, the ones that had just been inside you, it is washed away.
You have always tasted so divine, my dear.
I pull away reluctantly, my departure as silent as my approach. I lean back against the wall and revel in your glory. I will remain until dawn comes, watching the first stretch of the sun play over the peace of your form. Until then I will dream of the life we used to live, with eyes wide open.