Stranger Than Fiction
Well, we all fall in love,
But we disregard the danger,
Though we share so many secrets,
There are some we never tell.
[Three centuries future verse, locked firmly from Hsu.]
There's an awareness of sensory information, all coming together with a gasp as she regains consciousness. The feeling of the silky, rumpled sheets is coupled with the flesh pressed against her own. It's warm, definitely masculine, and the scent of him is both alarming and comforting. The silence is broken by his breathing, and that is only because he is wrapped around her, his lips against her neck. He's all around her, holding on even as he dreams, because time is against them.
It's Saturday morning. How did Saturday survive three hundred years into space? They had played, on Friday, but worked, too. They had killed on Friday, both of them, defending their lives as their kind always did. They had won on that Friday night, together, and the force of that win had led them to madness.
This was madness.
She moved, just a bending of her leg, but he tightened his muscular arm around her, possessive even in his dreams, as though his subconscious feared that if she got up from the bed, then she would remember that this...all of this...was forbidden. Her mind did the math, logged the hours that they could indulge this fantasy, before they would have to return to reality. Saturday would be alright. No one expected them anywhere, and it was not unusual for him to want someone sleeping in the room with him. Into the night, even, they could excuse, though they might have to go out to eat, to keep up appearances. They always slept late on Sunday. It wouldn't be until the afternoon that expectations would force separation.
There would be Hell to pay for this. Of that, she was certain. Maybe not now. But someday. No matter how much he loved her, oh, and he did, she knew that it was possible he would tell. He wouldn't mean to. Maybe he wouldn't even say it. Maybe there would be a touch or glance between them that wouldn't escape notice from icy eyes. No matter how much he loved her. Maybe because of how much he did.
It was so easy, would be so easy, to love him. It was warm and good, comfortable and nice to be loved like this. She felt like a different person. A better person. Lovable. It had been so long since anyone had loved her, and he had for all that time. Sex and love were supposed to be separate, or so they say. But the danger of sex was when it was firmly entwined with love, like now, on a Saturday morning.
He was awake. She felt him shift, hesitate, and she knew he was looking at her, from behind her, wondering how this happened. Silently, she stretched her legs and pressed against him, her nude body comfortably curled into his. They had today, tonight, maybe a bit of tomorrow. He loved her. She loved him enough to not let herself reciprocate fully. She wondered how this stranger inside herself managed to separate the insanity from the pleasure.
There would be hell to pay. Someday. But right now, they had this.
But we disregard the danger,
Though we share so many secrets,
There are some we never tell.
[Three centuries future verse, locked firmly from Hsu.]
There's an awareness of sensory information, all coming together with a gasp as she regains consciousness. The feeling of the silky, rumpled sheets is coupled with the flesh pressed against her own. It's warm, definitely masculine, and the scent of him is both alarming and comforting. The silence is broken by his breathing, and that is only because he is wrapped around her, his lips against her neck. He's all around her, holding on even as he dreams, because time is against them.
It's Saturday morning. How did Saturday survive three hundred years into space? They had played, on Friday, but worked, too. They had killed on Friday, both of them, defending their lives as their kind always did. They had won on that Friday night, together, and the force of that win had led them to madness.
This was madness.
She moved, just a bending of her leg, but he tightened his muscular arm around her, possessive even in his dreams, as though his subconscious feared that if she got up from the bed, then she would remember that this...all of this...was forbidden. Her mind did the math, logged the hours that they could indulge this fantasy, before they would have to return to reality. Saturday would be alright. No one expected them anywhere, and it was not unusual for him to want someone sleeping in the room with him. Into the night, even, they could excuse, though they might have to go out to eat, to keep up appearances. They always slept late on Sunday. It wouldn't be until the afternoon that expectations would force separation.
There would be Hell to pay for this. Of that, she was certain. Maybe not now. But someday. No matter how much he loved her, oh, and he did, she knew that it was possible he would tell. He wouldn't mean to. Maybe he wouldn't even say it. Maybe there would be a touch or glance between them that wouldn't escape notice from icy eyes. No matter how much he loved her. Maybe because of how much he did.
It was so easy, would be so easy, to love him. It was warm and good, comfortable and nice to be loved like this. She felt like a different person. A better person. Lovable. It had been so long since anyone had loved her, and he had for all that time. Sex and love were supposed to be separate, or so they say. But the danger of sex was when it was firmly entwined with love, like now, on a Saturday morning.
He was awake. She felt him shift, hesitate, and she knew he was looking at her, from behind her, wondering how this happened. Silently, she stretched her legs and pressed against him, her nude body comfortably curled into his. They had today, tonight, maybe a bit of tomorrow. He loved her. She loved him enough to not let herself reciprocate fully. She wondered how this stranger inside herself managed to separate the insanity from the pleasure.
There would be hell to pay. Someday. But right now, they had this.