and all of us, we’re meant for the fire, but we keep rising up and walking the wires
And here, she comes undone.
She no longer has anything to hold onto—nothing to say. He presses his lips into her flesh and she sighs, softened by him, quieted by him. Her vision is hazy, blurred on the edges, and she lifts her head back, to look at the sky as it spins wildly above them. This is the moment she has always spent so much time trying to avoid. This is the moment she has always tried to keep away, and, instead, she finds that she is diving into it headfirst. She drinks it in greedily, purring in her throat, arching into his touch.
He is everything and nothing like she assumed.
He is wicked and beautiful and hers.
He is hers.
(She is his, but she can’t admit that—not yet.)
She grows wild with want, with need, and he draws her further and further down the path of it. He need only crook a finger and she obliges. She no longer has any restraint, any conviction. She is not the icy woman he has always known; she is not the guarded woman of his youth. She is bright and fierce and alive beneath his touch. She gives us much as she takes, and she hungers for more, her eyes sharp with it.
When he finally groans, she shakes her head, throaty laughter escaping her.
“My last chance was a long time ago.”
She curves her head back to him, beautiful in the light that washes over him. She drinks the sight of him in greedily, wanting to remember it forever, wanting to carve it into the back of her mind and she sighs.
Nods.
Gives herself over to the flames that lick through her very bones.
lynx