Blood Love

Then: Morning

He woke up early that morning, because he loved to watch her sleep. He loved the moment of pure disorientation with her hair in her face and her eyes all heavy. A light rain tapped the window, a steady beat that persuaded laziness and boredom. The slow exhalation of her awakening breath skirted against his cheek. With his palm on her stomach he measured each rise and fall. There was something so sinfully enticing about her, something he would sell his soul to the devil to keep, and never regret. And it drew him in like opposite poles of a magnet, unstoppable, undeniable, completely out of his control.

            Her lips were slightly chapped beneath his as he kissed her. She released a breathy gasp of surprise, responding instantly, gripping his hair, his shirt, his arm, anything she could find. He pressed his fingers to her jaw, feeling it open wider, wider, bumping his teeth in her lethargic, morning disorientation.

            When he pulled away she flashed him the crooked smile that undid him every time. "Good morning to you, too."

            They remained in bed for a long time after. Too long, maybe. But it was Saturday and neither of them had to work and they could afford to do it so they did. Eventually their stomachs growled, demanding breakfast. He tickled her out of bed and they toppled into the shower stream together, chest-to-chest, skin-on-skin. Four years and not a lot had changed between them. It may have taken some time to get her through the PTSD and constant nightmares before they could even become completely intimate, but he would do it again in a heartbeat. He would become a monk for her. He would do anything for her. And everything may not have been perfect, but it was fine. It was okay. They were okay.

            He ran his hands through her wet hair, and then down her neck, chasing stray droplets down each curve of her body. She arched into him and wrapped an arm around his neck and because that, right there, was a moment they rarely could indulge in together, there was no reason whatsoever to hold anything back.

            He bit down on her neck, shuddering as her nails dug into his back. He pressed their lips together, pressed her flush against the cool tile away from the pounding stream of water. He worshiped every inch, every scar, every jagged crevice within her soul that he blamed himself for every day; breathing love into her, pushing himself farther inside her, farther and farther and never stopping, because he never wanted to stop. And then they stumbled from the shower, panting, wrapping each other in towels. He stole another kiss from her unsuspecting lips and then tugged on a pair of pants and left her to get dressed.

            There wasn't much left in the fridge, but of what remained, breakfast consisted of bacon, eggs, and toast. Hayley padded into the kitchen wearing only one of his shirts. She joined him at the table and together they scarfed up the breakfast. Outside the rain poured harder. The shirt slipped down her shoulder, revealing the faded paleness of one of her scars; one of the many. He trained his eyes on his eggs to suppress the helpless rage, because it happened four years ago and he couldn't do anything about it now.

            "What do you want to do today?" she asked, dragging her wrist across her lips to clear stray droplets of orange juice.

            He shrugged, carrying the dishes to the sink. "Whatever you want, Princess."

            "Yeah?"

            The twinkle in her eye was challenging. She stood from the table and shuffled over to the counter, starting on the dishes. He brushed fiery red hair off her shoulders, skimming his knuckles along the porcelain skin. She was his and nothing would ever change that. Ever.

            Whoa, slow down. Too possessive. Too carnal. You left that mindset behind, remember?

            Except he didn't. He couldn't. Because his entire life existed beyond the bounds of legality, and it was too much of an integral part of him to change. And he wanted to change for Hayley. Desperately. There was some trying, and failing, and occasionally mild success, but mostly failing. And always the ultimate realization that that portion of his soul would never alter or disappear.