© Informed Consent
When he kissed her, he thought he tasted blood. It was a distinct possibility. He opened his eyes, to see hers still closed tightly, the tear-smeared mascara making her look like a dirty angel.
Her little hand gripped his thick fingers tightly. He stroked her hair, enjoying the sensation of peace; of appetites satisfied, of promises kept.
It had taken him years to find her, to find this place. He had left behind a wreckage of broken and unfulfilled relationships with beautiful women who could never have given him a hundredth of the sensation and fulfillment this little thing could. He had found her, and she had found him. She fit him like a lock to his key. The contours of their souls matched exactly. It was uncanny.
He loosened the belt from around her neck, prompting an audible but gentle sigh. She opened her eyes to meet his. Her gaze steady and full of acceptance. He felt emotion well up in him. He extended his hand gently, so different to only a few minutes before, and traced the line of her cheekbone tenderly.
She held her open wide eyed gaze, put her delicate fingers to his, and slowly curled his hand into a fist.