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It did not happen. Not really.
There was dirt in the water (from the woods) and it was trailing down her body.
The moss under her, damp and cold, his body between her legs and he above them.
She felt him, like ozone before and after a storm.
He had big blue eyes. He had started down at her - uncovering whom he was - uncovering what they both were.
He was strong - he was real.
He was dangerous, damaged (he was, was, was...)
Water, hot and punishing trailing down her body. Her face burning hot (with desire and guilt and shame and something else - need, yearning.) against the white, cold tiles.
It did not happen. Not really.
He smelled like blood, like life. And blood was life and he was real. He was music and earth and sweat (male, clean, like sunshine) and blood, her blood.
It did not happen. Not really.
Her heart fluttering against her ribcage, pumping madly with aftershocks. The heat, the blood - rushing from her chest down, pooling between her legs.
A breath.
His eyes: huge and blue. His smile: knowing, mocking (worshipping, adoring -- if she'd allow him to)
A heartbeat.
Silence around them. The night held its breath, crouching down next to the dead body (Dear God, she felt alive in her skin, so real, bursting up with everything, burning up with want-need)
The silence throbbed between them. It was nameless, it felt like the echo of the last note of a perfect piano duet. (Not quite,not yet...)
He smelled like blood and earth and something else -- something that she recognized, even though she did not know its name.
Blood and adrenaline flowing into her veins, the ghost of a breath (a last, choking, dying breath) against her skin.
And then --
It did not happen. Not really, but...
Hot, wet, tight. Tears on her face, her breath catching up in her throat.
“I'm burning up.” She had whispered just before he kissed her.
His mouth on hers: hot, soft, cruel, reverent and possessive.
She wanted -- no, she craved -- his blood, his breath, sweet and red on her, around her.
Her fingers moving, wet with water inside of her.
His hands -- deadly instruments, strong, capable of making beautiful music --in her hair, keeping her still, making her breath through him.
He tasted of green moss, of blood, wine and sugar.
“I'm burning up. Help me!”She had pleaded.
He was solid against her: skin, tendons, bones, blood and a heart that beat strongly against her own.
They shifted, moved together in that small space (universe): his hands on her waist, their chests pressed flush against each other.
Her hips, set in motion by her fingers. Hot, punishing warmth coming in her belly; steam surrounding her, tears and hot water mingling on her face.
He didn't stop and she didn't ask him to. She didn't stop him when he tilted her head on a side, his lips on her neck, his tongue lapping her skin, tracing her jugular; his breath warm and red on her skin, his heart drumming crazily against hers.
India Stoker wanted --craved.
She wanted the red, she wanted to taste his strength, feel it, on a cellular level.
She needed ( “I'm burning up, help me!”)to feel his hands on her body, his touch grounding her, tethering her to that moment -to that last, dying breath, to him above them, to the fire it had sparked in her
Charlie, uncle Charlie and his big blue eyes, bright caskets of secrets even in that little, dark universe.
Charlie and his hands so warm and strong, igniting fireworks on her already burning skin. He had set the world alight, he was the only one who could tame it.
It did not happen. Not really.
He didn't need to part her legs, she spread them on her own, feeling disconnected from everything that wasn't the pulsing and pooling heat between her legs; she hid her face in the crook of his shoulders, his skin warm and salty against her lips.
“India, India, India...” He whispered, over and over, like a prayer, like a sacrilege, like he worshipped her and knew all her secrets. Like he was one of them, the deepest one, tasting of earth, blood, moss and sugar.
She felt it cooling, building in her thighs, in her belly, in her spine; she snapped her hips, seeking more (him), fucking herself on two fingers, studiously avoiding her clit - because It had to last - because she was crying and panting and it was mesmerizing.
It was as if they had always done that, in the back of a car, sweat mingling, breaths panted against each other's skin. He kissed her temple, repeating her name, and she let his fingers fill her.
She was...
She was burning up, and he was the disease and the cure.
He wasn't gentle -- and she didn't want him to be (she wanted ozone and blood and that moment: him, towering above them - powerful, beautiful, saving her, claiming her, damning her.
Fuck, yes. She belonged, at last
She made sense. )
It did not happen.
He did not fondle her breasts, he did not allow her to touch him; he was there, long fingers fucking her, forcing her to follow the punishing rhythm he had chosen: quick, hard and she could not help but follow him, letting him lead, noticing goose bumps on his neck whenever she panted against his skin.
Her climax was hollow. Muscles and a bundle of nerves doing what they were supposed to do. Water cooling down on her skin, her hair matted against her face, her breath still caught in her throat.
He felt it when she was close and his mouth was on hers, again, tongue and fingers and that gleam in his eyes, like she was his (and she was. They both knew that; blood and flesh and darkness).
A flicker of his thumb on her clit and she was lost; her body, her mind, her soul.
Wave after wave and he was relentless as she broke their kiss and her lips went to his neck, lapping, nibbling, sucking, tasting, needing the blood, the taste and feel of him.
She was lost, she had been lost forever and he had found her (dampened her, saved her, completed her.)
“India --” He whispered, a confession against her skin.
She had drawn blood -- his blood, and it smelled like life, like them.
It did not happen. Not really.
She got out of the shower, looking at her clothes on the floor, her heart drumming in her chest -- that breath, that last breath...She could still feel it, it was ghosting against her skin.
She swallowed.
Later, he was there, a silhouette in the hallway, physics and gravity and blood making the space between them nil. They breathed the same air, and it was electric.
He smiled -- looking at her-- and she noticed the pulling bruise on the side of his neck.
It didn't happen. Not really.
Did it?