Dreamshare the second ; open
[You may blame Jackie for this. I know I do. Warning: Moar Edensporn.]
It's night, and the bedroom is deepest, blackest dark. He can hear the river through the open windows, smell the coolness of its water. The house is suffused with wind, its walls velveteen with shadow. Olive branches just outside the glass catch the moonlight and crumple it before casting it in at uneven lines and angles. It's an old house, suffused with the scents of living - there is hay, and oil, there is leather and wood, oranges and wine. He is on his back in a large bed, almost absurdly large, and lavish - too rich by far for this simple room, for the grainy wood of the bedside table with its tin cup of cold water and slice of country cheese. Everything is simple but for the bed, the enormous four-poster bed with its blood-red sheets. He lies at the center of it like on the body of a great living thing.
There is something under the cover with him. No, someone.
He knows this in that way that you know things in dreams, looking at the bundled sheets, their crimson curls and twists like the insides of a flower. Slowly, he pulls himself out from under the covers and sits on top of them, knees drawn up to his chest, the night on his bare skin. There is another smell invading through the cool simplicity of the room. It's the smell of a woman's hair. Mona's hair.
He breathes it in and suddenly he is drunk with it, his head spinning and his skin shivering. Suddenly he is aroused almost to the point of pain. He begins digging through the sheets.
It's like diving into a sea of silk or tearing into a rose. He pulls on them, bundles them and shoves them off the bed, with violence and abandon. They come off easily enough, but they also do not end. He can't even glimpse the form of her, and it seems to him as if she's tangling herself even deeper on purpose - he can imagine a wry smile, perhaps even laughter as he continues to tear through the rich, priceless fabrics. In the dream, the bed can contain endless covers, endless veils. He is furious one moment but breathless the other, heat racing with his blood, his manhood hard and aching. He wants her, oh, harder and more desperately than he thinks it's possible to want a woman. If he can find her she will finish him with just one touch. If he can find her -
He gasps something, and knows it's a name - and her arms snake around him from behind, her lips touch the back of his head and her night-black hair tumbles down and brushes his face.
He whirls on her and she does not resist. She smiles at him as he catches her, pins her arms and pushes her down, with a violence that walks the edge of true danger - grins at him with a mouth as red as the sheets, with knowing dark eyes, without a hint of fear at his strength or his need or his desperation. And it drives him mad as if he were a smooth-faced boy. His hand tangles in her hair as he brings her head up and claims those lips, that smile, and his other hand urges her on, but she is ahead of him there. The gasp that escapes him as she closes her hand about his manhood, a rougher touch than a man should stand for, is half a prayer of thanks. But it is half a name, again, lost in the hot, thick air between their bodies.
She holds him and the covers swallow them both, until there is nothing but red.
It's night, and the bedroom is deepest, blackest dark. He can hear the river through the open windows, smell the coolness of its water. The house is suffused with wind, its walls velveteen with shadow. Olive branches just outside the glass catch the moonlight and crumple it before casting it in at uneven lines and angles. It's an old house, suffused with the scents of living - there is hay, and oil, there is leather and wood, oranges and wine. He is on his back in a large bed, almost absurdly large, and lavish - too rich by far for this simple room, for the grainy wood of the bedside table with its tin cup of cold water and slice of country cheese. Everything is simple but for the bed, the enormous four-poster bed with its blood-red sheets. He lies at the center of it like on the body of a great living thing.
There is something under the cover with him. No, someone.
He knows this in that way that you know things in dreams, looking at the bundled sheets, their crimson curls and twists like the insides of a flower. Slowly, he pulls himself out from under the covers and sits on top of them, knees drawn up to his chest, the night on his bare skin. There is another smell invading through the cool simplicity of the room. It's the smell of a woman's hair. Mona's hair.
He breathes it in and suddenly he is drunk with it, his head spinning and his skin shivering. Suddenly he is aroused almost to the point of pain. He begins digging through the sheets.
It's like diving into a sea of silk or tearing into a rose. He pulls on them, bundles them and shoves them off the bed, with violence and abandon. They come off easily enough, but they also do not end. He can't even glimpse the form of her, and it seems to him as if she's tangling herself even deeper on purpose - he can imagine a wry smile, perhaps even laughter as he continues to tear through the rich, priceless fabrics. In the dream, the bed can contain endless covers, endless veils. He is furious one moment but breathless the other, heat racing with his blood, his manhood hard and aching. He wants her, oh, harder and more desperately than he thinks it's possible to want a woman. If he can find her she will finish him with just one touch. If he can find her -
He gasps something, and knows it's a name - and her arms snake around him from behind, her lips touch the back of his head and her night-black hair tumbles down and brushes his face.
He whirls on her and she does not resist. She smiles at him as he catches her, pins her arms and pushes her down, with a violence that walks the edge of true danger - grins at him with a mouth as red as the sheets, with knowing dark eyes, without a hint of fear at his strength or his need or his desperation. And it drives him mad as if he were a smooth-faced boy. His hand tangles in her hair as he brings her head up and claims those lips, that smile, and his other hand urges her on, but she is ahead of him there. The gasp that escapes him as she closes her hand about his manhood, a rougher touch than a man should stand for, is half a prayer of thanks. But it is half a name, again, lost in the hot, thick air between their bodies.
She holds him and the covers swallow them both, until there is nothing but red.