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The Need to Live

A re-affirmation of life is sometimes needed
She wanted him, had wanted him for so long, she could not remember a moment when the mere mention of his name had not tightened something in her, had not heated her blood. It mattered little that most of the time she could not stand him, that he was her boss’s boss, that he was her best friend’s brother. It had not even mattered when he had belonged to another woman. She had always wanted him. 

So why should it surprise her that standing here, in his living room, covered in dried blood after three days of sheer terror in the captivity of five psychotic bank robbers and a row of interminable police interviews, the only thing she felt was need. It was burning and immediate, a reassertion of life in its most primal form. 

“I want you.”

It stopped him in his tracks, the pillow he was about to drop onto the couch dangling uselessly from his hand. She met the shock in his blue eyes with the absolute certainty in her own and repeated:

“I want you. Now.”

She did not wait for his answer, or any encouragement. She could not, too mired in the need to touch him, to reach for him and feel the life of his skin not the sallow tint of death her mind had suggested to her again and again over the days of their captivity. Her hands smoothed across the planes of his chest, the warmth reassuring under her touch, the goosebumps following her touch a calming sign of life, or reality, of his safety. 

He caught her wrists in his hands, not lifting them from his chest, just halting their movement.

“Jules, you do not want this, not really. I am just your best friend’s brother. You don’t even like me.”

But there was no true objection in his voice, just a hesitation and when her eyes met his again she saw a vulnerability she would never have guessed existed. Holding his gaze she bent forward, drawn by the emotion in his eyes and the feeling of his life under her hands. Her lips stroked along his collar bone, the salty taste of fresh sweat and pure male and aphrodisiac on its own. He moaned and his hands fell from her wrists, defeated by his own need - or just his confusion. She did not know but was happy to go on. 

What in the end stalled her was the view of her own hands on him, her nails still coated with the dried blood she had not been able to remove in the quick cleanup she had been allowed at the police station. Horror made her recoil, the loss on his face, in his eyes, stopped her. Well, then, they would start this celebration of life in the shower. She guided him to the bathroom in silence. There was nothing to say. 

The water was hot and clear, washing away the blood and the world. Their lips found each other naturally, the taste of clean water and heating passion a mesmerising swirl between them. Her hands discovered him as if she had to make sure each inch, each stretch of skin was unharmed, untouched by violence. He let her, so counter his normal nature, he remained completely passive under her hands, even though there was no doubt he was a willing participant. 

She loved the taste of water on his skin, the way the taut muscles spanning his chest twitched under her questing tongue. She slid down his body and with each centimetre along her path she felt his tension rise. On her knees before him she let her eyes roam, took him in, in all his glory. Then she met his eyes, need an almost touchable presence in them. And still he did not press her, did not urge her on. Eyes half-lidded by pleasure he only raised his hand to stroke a gentle finger along her jaw. There was no demand in the touch and still it broke the chain on her restraint. She could not ignore his gloriously aroused penis at just the right height before her.

Holding his gaze, watching the anticipation war with the control in his eyes, her tongue snuck out and stroked along the rim of his foreskin, so close to her. The fingers that had stroked along her jaw found purchase in her hair but still he did not pull her in, just held on as if he needed an anchor against the hovering pleasure. Her grin was wicked. 

Her lips stretched to glide over the head of his penis, her tongue already playing along the slit before going deep, engulfing him as far as she could - and then a little further, the convulsion of her throat a massage of the sensitive tip. His moan was music in her ears. She could do this all night - maybe she would. 

She left before he woke. He might not be married anymore, she might not hate him anymore, but he was still the brother of her best friend, the boss of her boss. It was best to go back to cordially disliking - and wanting him. He was safe and alive, she knew that at a visceral level and that was enough. For now.
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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