Hellsong

Theo wandered down the hall and into her bedroom, Viggo trotting behind. She looked down, wishing that she'd had the gumption to make up the bed earlier. She hated getting into a cold, messy bed. The dark wooden bed frame nearly overpowered the room with its size. The whole room gave off an aura of loneliness with its cold, white walls and gray décor. The only color was Theo's swath of red hair. Like a bonfire in the middle of a barren tundra. She looked at herself in the mirror, examining her face closely, running her fingertips over the fine lines of her cheekbones and the gentle curve of her jaw line. Her green eyes shone brightly, lined with an expanse of long eyelashes. She pulled her hair down and let it fall around her face in gentle, mussed waves. She smiled, wishing that she looked as good when Marc was around. She pulled her shirt off, tossed it aside and looked around for a suitable T-shirt to wear to bed. She had discovered that she was not a pajama person. She never managed to keep the matching pieces together. She supposed this was part of what kept her single. She had no desire to pretend to be a smoldering sex goddess. She would prefer just being herself. Unfortunately, that was not how the game was played. Finally, after several minutes of rummaging through drawers, she found a fitted cami that would be comfortable enough for sleeping. She pulled it down over her generous hips and began braiding her hair loosely.

Her mind began to wander to the man who had helped her down on the street. How lucky she was that he had been walking by at the exact moment that she needed him. Like some kind of guardian angel. And he was everything that one would expect an angel to be. His frame, tall and angular with wide shoulders and squared hips. His hair so blonde that it reminded her of strands of crinkly silk that fell across his brow. And his eyes. His eyes were so blue that she seemed to see right through them and into his soul. She had trusted him upon seeing those eyes. His voice still echoed in her head, his touch still burning on her skin even though it had only been a moment's caress. She put her arms around herself, goose bumps popping out all over as she thought of him. She breathed, closing her eyes and imagining what his arms would feel like encircling her shoulders, holding her tight, his lips on her skin.

She laughed nervously under her breath. She shouldn't be thinking of him like this. She didn't even know his name, for God's sake. He could be anyone, but she could remember every subtle nuance of his voice. His smell had permeated her skin and still hung heavy in the air. She picked up the sweater she'd been wearing and held it to her nose, inhaling. The bittersweet scent of red wine mixed with soap and clove cigarettes. It was unlike anything she'd smelled before and it took her back to the moment when he'd grabbed her, keeping her from falling.

Theo hugged the sweater to her body as she crossed the room. It was worn and soft—her favorite—the color of pomegranate seeds. It was still warm from the heat of her body and she pulled it closely around herself. She lay down with it, holding it against herself. If only she could feel the warmth of his body atop hers, then perhaps it wouldn't be so cold. Theo inhaled again, taking his scent into her, letting it fill her up. She could imagine him breathing into her, his kiss keeping her alive in this concrete tomb she'd created for herself. She opened her mouth to let him in and her mind's eye made it real. His lips crushing against hers, his teeth scraping across the delicate skin. She groaned, her fingertips trilling lightly across her shoulders and down her arm. If she closed her eyes and blocked out the rest, they felt as she imagined his fingers would, desperate and sure. They slid over the rough threads of the sweater, pressing it into her flesh as they sought out the curve of each breast. She could feel their centers hardening under the fabric and she arched into her own fantasy. She raised a hand to her mouth, covering it to muffle the sounds of her cries, then flicking her tongue over the pads of her fingers. She could almost taste him where he'd taken her hand before and she tasted the smoke tobacco flavor that lingered there.

With her other hand, she pushed the sweater higher, sweeping it aside to rest by the pillow. This way she could still smell him, but her body, now burning with the heat of her waking dream, could cool in the nighttime chill. Taking her fingers from her mouth, she slid them down, working them beneath the fabric of her camisole and using them to caress each nipple. They were so stiff that, at the first touch, they seemed to shrink with pain. But soon they warmed to her delicate teasing and she became bolder. She touched them the way she imagined he would—cautiously at first, then more urgent as his need for her grew. She rolled them between her thumb and forefingers, pulling at them gently until the sensation drifted down in waves to settle at her center. She could feel the pleasure sitting heavy over her sex, the heat becoming so intense that she had to open her thighs to calm it. She could hear his voice echoing in her ears. He called her name, tempting her to touch herself. She could see his eyes, burning blue fire as he watched her. He smiled, almost guiding her hands to her center.

Before she could stop herself, her fingertips were playing at the edges of her sex, pulling the small, dewy petals apart. She moaned softly as the cool air trilled over her overheated skin. The edge of her fingernail scraped over the tiny, swollen nub of flesh at her center and she gasped at the intensity of sensation. Before she knew it, she was crying out, falling faster into a chasm of pleasure built by his suggestion.