From the beginning, she had flirted with his darkness. It was the part of him that she found most alluring and yet the part that she was most afraid of. For all his smiles and soft touches, there was always that edge to him, an inky blackness that danced at the outline of his person, as if he was drawn, rather than born.
He certainly seemed that way at times, a creation rather than some happy accident of chromosomes and teenage lust. As if some author had conjured him onto the page, filled him in with the characteristics that made him just right for her, a homing missile made of her own personal kryptonite.
It had hit, and devastated her, just as was intended. He did it all with a wink and a smile, the kind of disarming charm that Nato could only dream of wreaking across the Middle East. He drove her to hyperbole, and she was only glad that her thoughts remained hers, hidden inside her head.
But she flirted with that darkness, teased her fingers across its edges, just seeing what would happen. Without it he would be neutered, nothing more than a man, but knowing it was there, even when it wasn’t showing, made every little part of him exciting. Words that would seem innocuous enough she would see through, notice the intended meaning behind them, and retort with a witty riposte. Which, inevitably, would end up with her in a situation she wasn’t entirely opposed to.
That was when the darkness was strongest, when she was over his knee, or at his mercy. When it took hold of him, looked out from behind his eyes, and she could see it. Staring at her, hunger and lust and possession, all mixed together in a heady, delicious concoction. It made her flare, and swell, and pulse. She throbbed to see that look. And no matter what she did, what he did, it just stared at her, unnerving and powerful.
And she stared back.
(via cindersk)
