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Perennial Lover

Tags: seasons
An age old cycle of love and separation
She was leaving him. Again. And there was nothing he could do about it. They were caught in this endless cycle of renewal to slow decay. He hated it - and still he yearned for her. Every time.

He smoothed a hand over the soft length of her back, as she lay besides him, hovering in that insouciant peace between waking and sleep. It made him smile. She had not been this relaxed, this calm in a long time, the last few weeks a constant parade of violent reassertions of her power, followed by timid withdrawal. Now she lay replete besides him, her long limbs soft in repose. He could not resist kissing that soft shoulder so invitingly close. She stirred; her eyes fluttered then subsided, their green depths still hidden from him, her body not yet willing to relinquish its hold on sleep. That sound she made, soft and vulnerable, the purr of a kitten from the mouth of a lioness, it wrapped around his spine in the particular magic of intimate familiarity. It hurt, hurt because he knew he would be losing it soon again.

But for now she was still in bed with him and he was not willing to let those moments, possibly the last moments, slip from his grasp without a fight. His lips wandered from the soft curve of her shoulder further up, the sharp edge of her bone too prominent under her skin. She had lost weight, too fast recently. Part of their cycle, another part which foreshadowed her leaving. He sighed, saw her skin contract, tense and pebble under the caress of his breath. He loved the impact the smallest touch could have on her.

Her scent, the crisp bite of ice over dark temptation, filled his very being, and held onto him one last time. She turned her head, searching sleepily. His lips found hers, let her have what she silently had asked for before her mind had even found the clarity of wakefulness. She was ferocious in her hunger, in her desire, in her need. Her hands came around him, mapped the hard lines of his body with her touch. Never happy to do things by half, her lips opened to him, then conquered him, invaded and took with lips, teeth, and tongue. He was more than happy to stroke that fervour, to feed that fire with his own.

She pulled him close, her strength surprising again and again, her body cool against the heating fire of his. Her kisses were rarely gentle, always demanding, always full of power and boundless strength. He loved those kisses - and for a moment he let her play, let her experiment. Her tongue invaded, her taste spreading in relentless waves across his existence until there was nothing left in his mind but her. His hands found the sharp relief of her ribs, the vulnerability of the fine bones banking his passion, gentling his desire. But she was less willing to let him slow their encounter, less willing to give into his softer urges. No matter, he had been here before, uncountable times.

Their dance shifted, brought him down on her, his weight stilling her movements. She did not go easy, writhing underneath him, nails finding his back in punishment. He luxuriated in the pain - and the touch. But he was not willing to let her have her way; his mouth had not tasted enough of her yet. He loved the way her back arched as his teeth found the long column of her throat, the shudder as he laved the little marks his teeth made in her skin. The sigh when he found the hollow at her collarbone, the sigh changing to a mewl when his hands filled with her breasts.

There he halted, let the minutes stretch for his own enjoyment. How often would he still be allowed to touch, to feel that subtle skin, that fullness under his hands. He had no idea why the pale curve, the dark contrast of the aureole had such profound attraction to him, but every time he touched her, it was a moment to savour. It was also a moment of torture, her glittering pine-green eyes now unseeing with want. It was that, the knowledge of her eventual surrender, which made him act. He wanted to be the world for her, just for one more instance in their shared journey.

Her lips still tasted like him, their shared pleasure. Only at the end of their cycle did she ever open that fully to him, let him take over that much. And just as her mouth welcomed him so did her body, opening to him with wet heat and complete abandon. He took his time, pushing her to the brink again and again. Her eyes softened, cleared and filled with … him. Only then did he let her fly.

He let her slip from his grasp, caught in the aftermath of their touch. Tomorrow another lover would begin her dance in his life and he would love her too - but in nine months’ time Winter would return to him as she had since the beginning of time. And he would welcome her with open arms. He was Spring, the renewer of life.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © Copyright © 2014 Christine Blackthorn

Published: 2014

The right of Christine Blackthorn to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

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