By My Side ... (A Valentine's Day Story) (15 page)

She felt lighter, with every
word she felt a little lighter. And she felt him as she had never
felt another before. He surrounded her with his presence, with his
very being. The touch of his hand on her back was so much more
present, so all-consuming. She felt him in every pore, in every
breath, in every beat of her heart, in the deepest recesses of her
mind.

She arched into his caressing
hand even as it stroked over the burning streaks on her back. Elena
felt the tears gather in her eyes, overflow and wet her cheeks. She
let them fall, let them free her. And just as she had arched into
the touch of his hand so did she lean into the pain of the flogger.
It was not a caress anymore, not a patter of sensation hovering at
the border of pleasure -- it was sheer agony and she wanted it. She
wanted it not for the agonising torment it represented but for the
reality it was. The pain wove an impenetrable wall of crystal
around them behind which all disappeared. The only truth remaining
was he and his hands on her. She did not have to wonder, to
calculate and castigate anymore -- she could only feel.

It was over too fast. She heard
the thump of the flogger as he dropped it to the floor a spilt
second after she had counted the ninth stroke. His hands slid
around her waist. She felt him fit his cool skin against her
burning back. Her head fell backwards on a sound somewhere between
a moan and a sob and it found the support of his shoulder in
instinctive trust. But his mouth as it played over the delicate
shell of her ear was hotter than sin.

"Tell me!"

He wanted to tell her the
reason for the last three strokes of the whip. Her admission of the
lie already lay on her lips but in the end she told him the more
fundamental truth.

"I lied to myself. I never
dared to really try, never allowed myself to bond."

"Will you now? With me? For
us?" The hope -- was it in his voice or her mind? It mattered
little. With tears running free from her eyes she whispered:

"I will try."

The meeting of their lips was
as careful as the touch of butterfly wings; as delicate as the
connection spinning around their destinies.

Bond

His fingers found the fastening
of the leather on her ankles and wrists. Within seconds the straps
fell away. Elena had lost the strength to hold up her arms, let
alone carry the weight of her own body. She would have crumbled to
the floor had his arm not caught her, held her securely.

Her arms tingled, then hurt as
the blood flowed back into her stiff muscles, her limbs complaining
about being extended for that long a time. His large hands spanned
her arms, massaged away the pain, his touch a momentary
distraction. They were still caught in that crystal ball, cut away
from the world, from the judgement and demands of reality. It was
still only him. She smiled at him, felt it, saw it mirrored in his
eyes. He was so much taller than her, she barely had to turn her
head to do so.

"You are still all the way
gone, aren't you? I like seeing you like this, befuddled and
open."

His lips were soft and warm as
they stroked over her brow, along the bridge of her nose. She lived
for that sensation and it lived in her. Her lids fell closed
without any conscious choice of her own. When his mouth covered
hers she leant into the taste, the touch, the lazy strokes of his
tongue over hers. It was a never-ending kiss, lazy and soft. It
consumed her and in its slow abandon it felt natural.

He lifted her without breaking
the kiss, his touch careful, his arm positioned so as not to touch
the sore skin of her back. But before he sat her on the bed he
broke the kiss, held her suspended until the sudden intent quiet
penetrated her floating stage. Her eyelids were almost too heavy to
open when she forced them to, her neck needing the support his arm
provided. He was smiling at her and before she knew her own lips
stretched softly.

"Elena, I need to know if this
hurts you and I am almost certain you are not in a state to tell
me. So, I want you to keep on looking into my eyes. Can you do
that?"

Hurt? She was not hurt. She was
burning, all over. But it was a nice burn, a burn that told her she
was alive, a burn that kept the world at bay, held her to him.

"I am not hurt." Her words made
him chuckle. She liked that sound, liked the way little lines
appeared around the corners of his mouth, feathering out. They made
him look more approachable, less stern. She wanted to feel them
under her fingers. So she did. It made the lines deeper, the smile
broader. He removed the arm under her knees, setting her carefully
down on the soft sheets, then captured her stroking fingers in his.
She became fascinated with his lips playing over her knuckles, the
way his teeth scraped over the tips of her fingers before gently
sucking them in. She loved the warm heat, engulfing the sensitive
tips, the feeling of his lapping tongue. It was so essentially
erotic.

Elena barely noticed how he
lowered her onto the cool sheets, every move deliberate, eyes
intent on the slightest emotion flickering over her features. But
she herself was caught in his intent stare, his expressions, the
sensations he gave her. It was not only that he had taken away all
the world but he had become the world. Everything seemed to exist
only through the filter that was him.

Only when he bedded her head on
the pillow and moved back, still holding her hand, did the spell
break. The cool sheets soothed the burn of her back, the softness a
protective cover. She did not like it. It made her wonder,
question, frightened. It made her puzzle as to what she was
supposed to do next. What did he expect from her? Was a bond
developing? If not, what could she do to make it happen? What was
he thinking of her?

Almost as if to recapture the
sensation, the burn, the link to him, she moved her shoulder,
scraping her back against the surface beneath her. The burning pain
was salutary, pulling her back into the isolation of her own
sensations, away from the intruding world. His large hand came to
rest on her chest, without true pressure but holding her still
through the power of his touch.

"Stop it, Lena. Lie still."

Elena frowned at him but it
seemed to have no effect, no impact other than making those lips
twitch with amusement. She was glad at least someone was amused.
For a moment it was enough to distract her, to capture her
attention, but too quickly her mind engaged again. And it engaged
with a vengeance.

Somewhere in her mind woke that
voice always telling her how flawed, how weak she was, and how much
of a freak; and the voice was yelling at her, drowning out all
else. It taunted and reproved. It told her that she was broken,
worthless and wrong, depraved to her bones. Look at her. She had
been punished but instead of this holding any shame for her she was
rubbing against the evidence of her punishment like a cat in heat.
Tears burned behind her eyes, a scalding pressure which seemed to
spread, to reach, to strangle her.

She had always known one thing
-- she had known she was good at this game of submission. She had
been told too often, had been praised for it too frequently, not to
believe it. It was the only thing she was good at, the only thing
that had always made her attractive to the men forced to sleep with
her. And now even that knowledge was taken from her. In the space
of less than an hour he had not only shown her how little she knew
about truly submitting to the control of a supernatural, so
necessary for the bond, but had made her see how little she had
even tried. So how could she ask him to see her as anything but a
tool? She did not deserve it.

For years she had felt
insufficient, desperate to find place until she had begun to hate
her own family for what they were demanding of her. Under all the
self-loathing, the self-doubt and despair there was also a healthy
dose of self-righteous arrogance. Deep down, in the secret recesses
of her subconscious mind she had blamed them, proudly secure in her
superiority. Now, she did not even have that mental protection
anymore.

She was losing her family, her
life, because she herself was just as much to blame as fate or
genetics. For a moment back there she had thought that she could
redeem herself by accepting the punishment, by starting new -- and
for a moment it had worked. For a moment it had felt as if she
would be able to be free, be what he needed her to be. She had felt
him, had felt a bond, possibly the bond, but she did not seem to be
able to hold onto it. His hand on her chest denied her the reminder
of the pain, denied her the crutch she needed to escape the
self-hate and self-loathing -- she was too confused to even know
what to feel anymore.

"Please." She was begging,
unashamed, barely conscious of it. She simply needed.

"What do you want, little one?"
She stared at him. What did she want? She could not think, could
not make it clear in her mind; though her instincts knew what she
wanted, needed, desired. She just could not give it voice, put it
into words. He bent to her, his lips stroking over hers in a
fleeting caress, gone before she knew it. She reached for him, the
move reminding her of the pain of her back with insistent stings
along her muscles, but she did not care, she simply wanted to pull
him close, make him stay, make him shield her from her own
reality.

"Make it stop." He was so close
she saw the strange mix of emotion in his eyes. It was not pity,
nor was it surprise or even triumph. It was a warmth, a hearth fire
to warm herself on. The bed dipped under his weight as he stretched
out besides her, his movements careful, mindful not to jolt her.
She did not care. Before he had even settled his muscular limbs
against her soft form she pressed herself against him. She expected
to feel the smoothness of leather, the hard edges of belt and
fastening but instead she only found skin. Glorious, warm skin and
every evidence he was interested in her.

Should it have alarmed her?
Possibly. Probably. But she had passed the place where any form of
alarm was conceivable to her. Instead she was simply grateful,
glorying in the sensation of his skin against hers. She could not
think anymore, did not want to, just wanted to feel. Like an addict
she craved him, wanted to wrap him around herself, her mind and
sensation, hiding in his very presence.

Suddenly he shifted them, his
weight a warm, firm blanket pressing her into the soft pelts
underneath her. The pain of the move buried under the rising swirl
of emotion and sensation in her mind, her body. She buried her nose
in the crook of his neck, so close, as if she could even fill her
airways with his scent.

He allowed her a moment to
wallow in his closeness, but when she tried to free her leg from
underneath him and wrap it around him she felt the rumble of
disapproval through her body. It froze her. Not just stopped her
movement but froze something in her. Her head fell back to the bed,
her arms sliding from the safety of his touch. Before panic could
take hold of her, he caught her gaze, held it with the calmness of
his own. There as no anger there, just control -- and demand.

"Stay still, little one."

It was an order and a
challenge, a chance to redeem herself for her earlier faux pas. She
understood it as such and it in itself allowed her to settle. She
did not need to fight for his attention, did not need to struggle
and prove herself -- she just needed to do what he asked. But she
could not help repeating:

"Please?"

Another smile. His brow came to
rest gently against hers, sharing his breath, his scent with her
without her having to strain for it.

"What do you need, Lena?" The
words were spoken against her mouth and she swallowed them greedily
with her lips. She felt the smile, the nibbling teeth. Her tongue
snaked out, tasting him on her lips but falling short of touching
him. How much movement was movement?

"Sweetheart, what do you need?"
He had asked her a question. She needed to answer it.

"You. I need you to stop the
world." His quick kiss shook under suppressed laughter, as he leant
back a little his eyes were brimming over with amusement.

"Stop the world?" Gentle
teasing. "Hmmm - I will try."

This kiss was deep and
open-mouthed, no ounce of teasing left. It consumed her, filled her
and she was more than willing to go along. Her lips opened to his
taste, to his tongue and the sensual duel for dominance. There was
no doubt who would win the contest in the end, but a kiss was a
game well played, a taste and competition in which surrender served
both the winner and the loser. His tongue was rougher, and more
flexible, than a humans, its edges a little sharp, a little hard.
It caught hers with a sensual stroke, dancing with her, tempting
her. When his mouth left hers her own lips were swollen, her
breathing hard and languid.

"I think I might be able to."
Dark satisfaction tinged the whisper. For a moment she was lost.
What was he saying? Then she remembered: she had asked him to stop
the world. And he had. A little.

He nibbled along her jaw, his
uneven teeth so tantalising in their difference, on the one side
the gentle caress, on the other the genuine threat they presented.
She gave him her throat, an instinctive sign of submission as well
as a quest for more pleasure. She felt his smile against her skin.
His hands roamed over her sides, careful in their touch.

The bed moved under sudden
pressure. It jolted her, reminded her of her burning back. It was
almost enough distraction to keep her mind from fixing on the long
planes of his body as he levelled himself up on his knees and came
to straddle her hips. But nothing could distract from that much
overwhelming beauty.