"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝; 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐨𝐮𝐬."
"Haven't I given enough? Must I sacrifice myself upon the altar of man's p...
Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour; The heavy white limbs, and the cruel Red mouth like a venomous flower; . . .
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How should she begin to describe it?
It wasn't at all what Aurora had expected. Nothing in life or books or films prepared you for the raw intimacy of sex, that carnal lust, the soft touch, that desperate wish to devour and be devoured. It made you feel like only a part of a whole, and the whole was on fire. It was as if all of her senses had fled her and Harry was there to fill the void they left behind.
All she could see, all she could feel, hear, and smell was Harry. Dominant in his invasion of her thoughts and faculties. The sweat on his neck that she traced with her tongue. The taste of his mouth. His hands gripping her thighs and his fingers digging into the soft flesh. The sounds he made against the shell of her ear. The kisses he left on her collarbones, carving a path down her throat, between her breasts, going further and further as though he was cracking open her ribcage with his lips.
The clothes had been the first to go. They were the most forefront barrier. Thrown over careless shoulders and strewed across the floor like victims of some kind of raid. Next the sheets, irritating and in the way, bunched up by their tangled ankles. He had seen her naked before, enough times to recognize her freckles and be acquainted with her beauty marks, and she had memorized the geography of his bare chest with her tongue and yet, this was different – this was different.
This was different and new and old and contradicting. Built-in so deeply inside her that even Aurora hadn't been aware of its existence. What had Freud dubbed it? Eros – the life drive, the instinct towards pleasure and survival as opposed to Thanatos, the death drive. La petite mort, the French called it. Yes, that felt more appropriate. Small death. Like he was slowly chipping away at her with his teeth, building her up with his fingers and mouth only to break her down when she could go no higher.
Sex had seemed foreign to her; some act performed by others who had no control over themselves or their bodies. Not a thing meant for her, never for her. Who could want her? But when she unveiled it and caught herself under the spotlight, on the stage, in that same play she had read and heard and ignored as the sounds of its actors bled through the thin walls of the room she had been staying in, Aurora realized it was just like a fight.
Spine arching, body tensing, mouths stealing breath as easily as a hand around the neck. When he drew back and grabbed her legs, pulling them apart, she felt pinned down, helpless. When he started pushing into her, the pleasure it brought overcame the pain that accompanied it.
His throaty voice cursing into her neck, breaking as he hissed fuck – don't move – so good – felt like threats being etched into her and she welcomed them with open arms and a moaning throat, whimpering threats of her own – right there – don't stop – please – please – please. Rasping his name. Begging like she was asking for her life, which might as well be true; when he started moving inside her, her life could have belonged to him.
