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She was of age, and willing, and frankly I’d never noticed her presence before that night, but she was also the child of the two people who’d irrevocably changed my life.
Then Rafael asked me to watch her, and poetry became the only way I could communicate with her.
The only way I wanted to.
Pulling the tattered book out now, I flip to a dog-eared page, my finger immediately finding the line, even though I know most of Blake’s poems by heart.
“'Til the villain left the paths of ease to walk in perilous paths, and drive the just man into barren climes.”
I hold her electric stare when I recite the line, and she frowns. “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.”
“The marriage of opposites. Good and evil. Theoretically speaking, we aren’t a sure thing,” I say, snapping the book closed and sliding it across the table in her direction. “But given the situation, we don’t have room to fail. I’m imprisoned in this union as much as you are; therefore, for better or for worse, your sentence is a permanent one, wife.”
She grunts, tapping her fingers on her knee, seemingly lost in thought. “What are the chances of you killing me, too?”
“Zero.”
One eyebrow arches. “You sound awfully certain for someone who just killed my fiancé and whisked me away from my family. How do I know you’re not about to take me out to the middle of nowhere and murder me?”
Her tone prods at some barely hidden annoyance bubbling inside of me, and I bristle, reaching up to undo the top button on my suit jacket. She tracks the movement with blazing eyes, that sharp little tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.
My dick pulses greedily behind my zipper, aching to be set free. I reach down, keeping my gaze locked with hers, and palm my erection, the heat of it scorching the base of my hand as I shift in my seat.
I shouldn’t toy with her—I’m barely staving off the temptation as it is. But for some unknown fucking reason, I just can’t help myself.
“You’re of no use to me dead, little one,” I say, squeezing slightly—not enough to make much of a difference, but enough that I feel a bead of precum ooze from the tip, soaking into the fabric of my boxers.
“But you’re not going to sleep with me?”
Horny little bitch. I watch as she flushes, nibbling on her bottom lip, and wonder if I know what I’ve gotten myself into here. “Not yet.”
“Then… what’s the point? What are you waiting for?” she asks, squirming in her seat. Pressing her thighs together, she wiggles around, likely trying to ward off the need swirling between her legs. “Are you not… interested in me that way anymore?”
Pink stains her cheekbones, embarrassment flushing a path down her neck, making her look innocent and fragile.
It’s not that I’m not interested, it’s that I’m too interested.
Once we start, I know we won’t be able to stop.
“Don’t worry, my little Persephone,” I say, releasing myself and sucking in a deep breath, before getting to my feet. “You’ll get fucked. Just not immediately.”
My cock doesn’t deflate until she averts her stare, her blush darkening.
Brushing my hands over the front of my suit, I extend one out to her, waiting patiently for her to take it. If she really does hate airplanes, I can’t imagine dismounting will be particularly easy; it’s a wonder she made it out of the bedroom at all, since the shift in altitude fucks with even the most experienced flyer.
She looks at my hand, then back up at me.
I tower over her when she’s standing at full height, my frame slightly larger than average, but looming over her while she’s eye level with my cock sends an entirely new sensation pounding through me, heightening the lust I’m trying to ignore.
“I didn’t want to marry you,” she says, her voice soft and unlike I’ve ever heard it before.
A lump forms in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. Such a familiar fucking sentiment. “So you keep saying.”
“What do you expect me to do here?” she asks, pushing up out of her seat; she wobbles, off balance for a half second, before gathering herself and crossing her arms over her chest.
I’m hit with the tangy, sweet pomegranate scent of her shampoo, and I’m half tempted to draw her into my arms and show her what I should expect of her, as my new wife.
All the ways I’d worship her tight, perfect body if given the chance. How I’d drag her to the depths of Hell but convince her she’d gone to Heaven, using my tongue to write wordless poetry on her sensitive, swollen flesh.
