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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1069899-Heartless
by Rielle
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Emotional · #1069899
She's beautiful, something tells him. She stands before him, arms open, body waiting.
She’s beautiful, something tells him. She is—all silk and satin. She stands before him, arms open wide, body waiting. He’s done this before, he knows, but it’s new each time. Each time, it’s harder. She’s silk and satin and silver. He touches one arm, feels the cold softness, slides a finger up white marble to her shoulder. She watches him, soft lips parted, eyes calculating.

It’s the same every night—she’s silk and satin and silver and stoic. His other hand runs up her side, feels the crumpled rose red satin slide under his fingertips. She doesn’t move. She waits, waits for him to tell her what to do.

She doesn’t care—she’s silk and satin and silver and stoic and scornful. He’s never good enough for her; she refuses to respond. It’s my duty, she tells him when he asks why she even bothers anymore.

This night, he can’t do it. He’s sinking, falling into a well of a kind of despair. She’s silk and satin and silver and stoic and scornful and superior. She doesn’t move unless he tells her to, unless he moves her. She doesn’t even fake anymore; she lies there, waiting for him to finish with her. He feels dirty with her—like he shouldn’t be with her. He wishes she could want him, wishes he could once again long for her. He no longer has the release in her he once did.

He gets up and leaves her- silk and satin and stoic and scornful and superior and silent. She watches, he can feel it, full lips quirked upwards to smirk at his back as he struggles with his clothes. He doesn’t look back, but leaves. As he turns the doorknob, he feels the ring on his left hand. He slips it off and sets it on a table, its cold chink against the hard wood oddly satisfying. He’s lost a weight, but only a little one. It’s not enough.

She’s beautiful, he realizes. She is—all life and lilies. Flowers in her hair, across her bed and sheets, strewn throughout the room. He loves the light, the feel of soft cloth against his skin—not slippery silk and satin, cold and impersonal. He loves her touch trailing slowly up his body, tracing lines and drawing pictures, lips following delicately and smiling. She’s life and lilies and lust. He watches her and her eyes turn upwards to him, brown and laughing. She smiles; it’s their secret, and she touches him again and he rises to it, feeling the pressure of her hand against his thigh and ever wanting more.

She’s life and lilies and lust and light. He can’t get enough; he breathes in her scent, lets it fill him until nothing else consumes him and in his head flash lights of brilliance. He moves with her, touching, watching, drinking in all she has to offer.

He belongs to her—she’s life and lilies and lust and light and luring. She touches him and he moves to please her. You’re mine, she whispers throatily in his ear, breath ghosting over his hair and cheek and lips until he shivers with anticipation.

He doesn’t want to leave—she’s life and lilies and lust and light and luring and love. He’s flying, diving in and out among clouds until he finally floats tranquilly on the breeze, smiling up lazily at her. She pulls away, still smiling, and slips her gown back on. He reaches out with one hand and she touches his fingertips, squeezes them and laughs. She feels the indent on his ring finger and her soft lips quirk upwards and she gives him a knowing look. He blushes, suddenly guilty for his moment of happiness, and gets up. He can feel her eyes on him as he fumbles with his clothing, shaking and hating himself, but wanting more. He has to force himself to walk out; he doesn’t look back. There’s a pillow on a chair by the door. He brushes it as he turns the doorknob, feeling how soft it is, giving, loving, comforting.

She’s silk and satin and stoic and scornful and superior and silent. He returns to her and she’s still waiting. She gives him his ring and he pushes it on; it shines coldly in the hard light of the hallway and he sighs. He touches one arm, feels the cold softness, slides a finger up white marble to her shoulder. She watches him, eyes calculating.

Fin

A/N: I'm still searching for a title with this, if anyone has any suggestions they'd be most appreciated.
© Copyright 2006 Rielle (rielle at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1069899-Heartless