An Act of Finality-Sylaire-Part 7

[black_hat]

“Oh, poor, poor, little lost girl, I had no idea.”

 

Disconcertingly, she noticed he was warm, comfortable. Perhaps it was a delusion in itself—their bodies fit together perfectly. He pressed his lips against her forehead, and smiled as his hands snaked under her shirt. She jerked a little from the sensation of his fingertips racing across her stomach, and was alarmed, alarmed, oh-so alarmed, when she felt a pressing warmth building up inside of her, a kind of silken twist-knot, between her legs and spreading down her inner thighs.

 

Her lips felt sorely sensitive. In fact, her whole body felt sensitive, and it was as if she was aware of her body in its entirety.

 

There must be something seriously wrong with me.  

 

But he wasn’t going further. Instinctively, she realized he was the one who was stymied. He was essentially grabbing at her, making a show. He kept his lips on her forehead, and his hands near her breasts, never altering his performance. For him, this was riskque, always taking and never giving.

 

So she slowly moved her head up, pretending to pull away—which he had expected—then kissed him. He opened his mouth against her lips in surprise, and she took full advantage, running her tongue across his top lip and kissing harder, sweeping her tongue into his mouth. She shifted in his lap, moving back and forth slowly, teasingly. Her heart raced as she felt him react to her, and he tried to stiffle his moan. And failed.

 

Then suddenly, his hands that were still placed under her breasts got either really hot or really cold. She hissed, shock coursing through her system, and it did hurt, but it didn’t feel entirely bad. It sent thrills and tingles along her body, from her breasts to her toes, overriding every nerve with hot cold, cold hot, and she found herself grinding against the hardness in his lap. Too much, too much, and she tried to pull back for real this time.

 

“Easy, easy, wait,” he whispered, breathing heavily, and gently, eased his hands away from her body, out from under her shirt. She pulled up her shirt to look, and saw his handprints along her rib cage. Frost bitten handprints. His prints resembled, to her at least, a red bird in a cage.

 

“Um…I’m sure…that can be fixed,” he said. Awkwardly.

 

Was it wrong that his unease sent her spiraling even higher? That his loss of control made the pressure build up even more in her lower abdomen, made her wet? Probably. She smiled, feeling alive, having been shocked awake. Something does get through to him, and he was human. Most of all, it made her deleriously happy that she was the reason. 

 

“Buckle up,” she whispered and pushed on his shoulders. He stared, completely taken back. And all the while, she was eating it up, though to be honest, she didn’t quite know how they had gotten here either.

 

“Lie down,” she translated. “And let me take care of your hands for you. Consider it my act of finality.” 

 

That did it. His eyes lit up feverishly, and he grinned a grin that burned straight through to her heart. “I’ve never tried remaking someone in my image before now. Don’t know how it looks on me, but it looks oh-so-good on you.”

 

Claire understood, very much so. By dressing up in his words, she had become a sort of mirror. And damnit, she was flattered. People like him didn’t give their image out to just anybody.

 

He laid back and put his hands up behind his head, ready.

 

“Shirt, first,” she reminded him. She had to shift to the very tip-top edge of the carseat, as he was still tall and Nissans were possibly not designed well for this. He battled with his shirt, and Claire knew better than to help him. She looked, instead, at the skin uncovered by the receding fabric, his body highlightd by every shade of gray. He wasn’t muscular, exactly, but he was vunerably designed. She knew exactly how to touch him.

 

He threw the shirt into the front seat, and she carefully moved to straddle his waist. Once more, he let her take his wrists, and Claire leaned forward to try to tie up his arms. He had beautiful arms, too. As she wrapped the seatbeat strap around his wrists, she breathed him in. He was real, worldly with sweat and late nights and all hers, and he bled heat. He darted forward to kiss her through her shirt, on her breasts, and she shivered, her clothes much too tight now. There was no thought as she placed her own kiss against the palm of his hand, down his neck, to the sensitive curve of his collarbone. With each, there was a reaction that pulled her down, pulled her along, pulled her apart, in connected to her nerves. Claire wanted to go deeper, taste him further, take from him for a change.

 

“You know, it would be a great time to tell me your name,” she whispered. He tensed, whereas before he was melting. “If you don’t, I’ll call you something else. Anything I choose.”

 

“You've already guessed my name.”

 

She tied his other hand, mindful of his watch, and waited.

 

“It’s Gabriel.”

 

She smiled, high that she had something of his already, and then touched him, returning the favor, and feeling his hardness once more against the fabric of his jeans. Then there was that rush of touching. Of touching her everywhere, every which way, except there was nothing. Invisible fingers rubbed her clit, lips against her breasts, and then licks, and then inside of her, inside of her, in, out, playing her nerves straight to the edge where it was like dying. She couldn’t get away from the touches even if she wanted to, going too high and then plummetting. She screamed out, not wanting to, trying to muffle it with the back of her hand. Inside, she moved against nothing and everything; it felt so good that it hurt. She had her first organism in this new life, in the only way that mattered, with the weakness eating out her legs, her abdomen, her body. He studied her, eyes alive. Restrained but beautifully in control.

 

She frantically unzipped his fly, flushed and thinking she was going to reach the edge too soon in this game. Ripping off her clothes, hearing it tear at her motion, angry and close, she strokes his member, and it’s his turn to gasp and buck into her hand. She smells sex from him, from her, and it only leads her further in her need to take him apart. She struggled but managed to pull his jeans off and to the floor. She straddled him and slid her opening back and forth over his tip. He moaned, his face a picture of pleasure and defiance, pleasure to the point of pain, and closed his eyes tightly. She lowered herself onto his penis, resisting the urge to move her hips, and quickly, reached for the console and took what she had wanted. Holding it tightly, she began to move.

 

She took him fast, and he arched his back, thrusting inside of her. Finding a rhythm, they moved together, and she died again, this time taking him with her.

 

Then, and then exactly, it was over. Claire had planned to lay down and put her head on his chests because it felt natural. Instead, he pushed her away, and picked up his shirt, unfolding it. 

 

It wasn’t as if she was hurt. She didn’t think that she had tried to fuck her away of a terrible situation. She had wanted to make it difficult for him to kill her. She had wanted someone to at least remember her. And Gabriel had merely transformed into another person and left her behind. Simple. She had been some kind of gauntlet for him to run, and it seemed as if he passed in his own mind.

 

She had given up her very last piece of existence.

 

“I think we’ve killed a lot of time.”

 

Claire looked at him. “Yes. Yes, we have. Can I say anything to change this?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then you need to see this,” she said, and opened up her palm. There, in the center, she held the jagged edge of the potted plant that had stabbed her in the foot earlier. He froze, shirt half on. “I could have killed you, just now. According to you, this would have been the best thing for me. Survival of the fittest, and all that. And it’s so easy to slip in to, right, Gabriel? The thing is you’re wrong. I don’t want you to die for me to live. I’m not lying, either, since we are enemies. It takes nothing for me to hurt you with the truth. At least, in the end, I know I’m not a bad person.”

 

She rolled down the window and tossed the small thing out into the night. There was a frozen moment where time did seem to stand still and the world hold its breath.

 

“That was very, very stupid of you.”  His voice cut with its calmness. Another moment of idleness and then he broke. “They won’t recognize you, I’m make sure of that. I’ll send you back to Daddy Dearest in a mail order package with a used sticker on it!”

 

Gabriel struggled with his shirt, and she thought he had ripped it in two. She also began to frantically look for her clothes, not wanting to die naked.

 

“Could someone please give me my pants back?" he screamed, and she realized that she was sitting on his jeans.

 

“It’s not as if I was hiding them from you!” she yelled back, throwing the jeans at him, and continuing to dress.

 

He opened the door, and the night air gave her one final rush of courage.

 

“At least you have your ice-breaker so you won’t be so boring.”

 

He slammed the door. The car rocked with the force of it, and he stalked off. Claire blinked after him, in wonder and in satisfaction. She reached for the drink in the cupholder and took another sip, waiting.

 

It was precisely three o’clock in the early morning, and he returned to the car thirty minutes later. She had taken those minutes and was happy to have them. By the time he was ready, she was too.

 

Gabriel placed something on the console. It was the piece of pottery.

 

“I see it didn’t hurt your hand.”

 

Claire said nothing.

 

“Help me pick out a new car. I’m sick of this one.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Unnoticed, they coasted out of the parking lot. 

*credits*

I’m not lying, either, since we are enemies.

-Based on: Only enemies speak the truth; friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web of duty. (Stephen King)

-The late night as a descriptive word(s) for scent is from Neil Gaiman.