Like a reader skimming through the old yellowed pages of a quaint book, fingertips lightly grazing the corners, the days fly swiftly after that one incident that has parts of me aching for more of his touch even after he'd left.
That day changed everything.
Despite the absence of lips pressing against lips in a passionate embrace, our bodies colliding furiously into the other, combusting in open flames and leaving us wrecked beyond restoration, somehow the feeling of his touch remains etched in my memory. It plagues me, has me imploring for more of him.
I recall the way my eyes fluttered shut with a blissful sigh, my bottom lip dropping open as I craned my neck back and let my body sag underneath his rock-hard one, sinking further into the multiple layers of disarrayed sheets.
His hand— rough and callous holding my neck firmly in place, applying pressure ever so often. Not too much, but just enough to evoke such a scandalous reaction from me, the perfect amount of force to intoxicate me... enticing me to fall to my knees in a pleading gesture. His lips – full and pink set in a teasing little curl, knowing that they had been pressed against the milky expanse of my neck.
It astounds me in all honesty; how a fleeting touch manages to elicit such damning sensations. For the love of all things ungodly, all he did was fucking speak in that low raspy tone of his and I was a goner. Imagine then what a taste of him could do to me.
"Have you seen Aïdon?"
The question is so random and unexpected that my brain lags for one second– all thought process skidding to an abrupt stop as my body freezes over almost instinctually. The cold surface of the kitchen knife remains pressed to the insides of my palm, fingers gripping the black and white handle almost painfully. Hovering over the flattened wooden cutting board containing haphazardly chopped ball peppers, the sharpened silver blade gleams under luminescent lighting.
My skin pales and I am positive I can hear the distinctive bass beat of my heart thudding thunderously.
Eyes darting swiftly to the side, I risk a fleeting glance at the dark-skinned female situated beside me. The assortment of silver bangles twisted around both her wrists and ankles glint wickedly, a jingling sound ricocheting off the walls when they tinny together as her hand sways and her feet glide across the floor.
I watch as her fingers expertly grip the slightly greasy pan handle and she pours a little bit of olive oil into the pan, letting it heat for a mere minute before picking a bowl with her other hand and letting the chopped ingredients plop into the oil with a sizzle.
She hums, urging me to deliver a reply. I can only shake my head, proceeding to absentmindedly chop the remainder of the greens and handing them over to her in a neat bowl.
Her question births several more which begin to trouble my head.
Ever since that day I'd wakened in his arms hugging me tightly to his chest, after he provided me for comfort which carried me through the night, the man has been missing.
Gone. He came like a blistering northern wind and swept me off my feet, tilting the very axis upon which I stand. In his parting he is just as swift, wrecking everything in his path and leaving me yearning for more of him even after he is gone.
Had I made him uncomfortable that night? It wouldn't come off as a surprise if that were the case. But then again, why would he leave?
I've been entrusted to him. A captive in his household to be dealt with as he pleases, after all the council gave no warnings against drawing blood from my skin. It is within his power, so why then? If I truly caused him distress then this is his territory, which he can easily dispose of for me temporarily until my presence is demanded by the council.
My mouth parts intending to speak, however, Ula beats me to it.
"I haven't seen him for the past 4 days," her eyebrows are drawn together and her expression is masked with genuine concern.
I saw him 3 days ago – the morning before he disappeared wherever. Hell, I woke up cocooned in his arms.
I probably am the last person to have set eyes on him.
I cough softly, glancing at Ula through the corner of my eyes and I dismiss the topic by saying; "I don't know."
A week passes in the blink of an eye and sooner than later I find myself standing before Ula in the grand hall being the lounge room, hands clasped loosely in front of me.
The luxurious room is picturesque and extremely spacious, with white tiles running from wall to ceiling as well as on the very ground beneath my feet. It is all black and white; black rug sprawled in the center and blue-tinted windows, black couches, and armchairs upon which soft pillows stitched with two fabrics of both shades lay.
Upon the walls is a vast array of artwork; most I notice to be sexual paintings that tell a story of their own. A naked woman hanging from a contraption of sorts– hands and legs spread wide like an eagle, surrounded by three huge men. One fondles her breasts so another sucks the peddled nipple into his mouth. Another stands behind her, hands lifted in the air with the intention of striking her plump ass. Her face is twisted in anguish yet it contracts greatly her actions as she seems to be arching her back further into their warmth, desperate for them to ruin her body till she forgets how to breathe.
Another portrait depicts one of a man laying in a luxurious bed with several women, one being impaled by his cock whilst the second gropes and teases her cunt. His face is hidden from view as another sits atop it with his tongue stroking her walls and driving her to her peak. Other females bear animalistic expressions as they sit on the floor surrounding the bed. Buttons popped open and eyes wide in awe as they take in the sight and let their minds wander and bodily desires take control. It's no wonder what they're doing.
Unknowingly, my heart begins to race and my pulse quickens the more I gaze at these paintings.
I want to be those women.
Feeling a growing throb on my clit, my panties growing wet, I forcefully tear my eyes away and instead focus on Ula.
My gaze trails after her, watching with inquisitive eyes as she runs around like a headless chicken, bangles jingling with every step, the sound is oddly soothing. Adorned in a black loosely fitted dress that barely makes it past her thighs, inked skin on display, she looks as gorgeous as ever.
Her steps are hurried, every muscle in her tense, and her eyes frantically flickering from the table to the front door, peering inside her bag to confirm the completion of its contents. She says, barely sparing me a wayward glance, "there's some leftover rice in the pot as well as a loaf of bread somewhere on the counter. Treat yourself to some. If it's not to your liking then do whatever, I don't care."
Lips tugging into a slight frown as my brows drop into a deep furrow, I assumed I would be under 24-hour surveillance. "You're leaving me alone?" At my question, she lifts her head, those bewitching murky orbs narrowing to slits.
"Are you not an adult?" I can't tell if it's a rhetorical question or not, "or shall I call a babysitter?"
A heated breath escapes from my nostrils like smoke from a burning furnace as I glower at her, provoked by the sly insult thrown my way.
"I'll try not to break anything." I grit the words through clenched teeth, my scowl ever-present.
She has almost crossed the threshold when she turns and addresses me one more time, "oh!" The exclamation draws my attention back to her. "Don't bother trying to escape, this entire place is barricaded with magic. If you happen to value your life, then don't step an inch outside."
The doors slam shut.
I sigh when I survey the room and find it lacking a television. I turn on my heels, intent on retreating to the welcoming confines of my room. My room? When had it become mine?
I shake off the thought, my brain already thinking of ways to entertain myself. A long relaxing bath? Burning down the kitchen in an attempt to cook? Or I could play dress-up.
The sound of the doorbell drags me out of my reverie and has me hesitantly turning my front of the closed door.
"No, the door stays locked," I mutter lowly to myself, shaking my head in an attempt to dismiss the sound. But then the person behind the door begins to knock, it starts as timid rasping of knuckles against the aged wood but then gradually builds to incessant and frantic poundings. Each one more violent than the last so the door shakes on its hinges.
I flinch at the harsh resonating sound and hiss, "okay, okay, I'm coming."
I approach the door, dragging my feet as I eye the golden handle like it's a threat to my sanity.
"Seren!" A deep, familiar voice laced with an unfamiliar strained emotion bellows from behind the closed door and my feet move at lightning speed, fingers grasping the handle.
I gasp. "Aïdon?"