My lady is a marble statue, standing tall and aloof in the doorway as she gazes upon me. Her skin is cool porcelain, smooth and pale against painted cherry lips. She’s straight out of Pulp Fiction -- Mia Wallace brought to life with blunt, dark bangs and piercing blue eyes. And though she is a woman of glaciers and not embers, her presence radiates just enough warmth for me to feed off of. I come back to her – she is home.
I can feel her watching as I sit on the couch, legs curled beneath me. A slight turn of my head and our gazes meet -- mine eager, longing, like a child, and hers a latent affection veiled beneath sly satisfaction. My heart swells with desire as I look her over. She is lovely, and she knows it. I am the chosen one, and she tells me through a ghost of a toothless smile that lasts for but a second. One slender hand brushes against the frame of the door, and elegant fingers beckon me forth. I rise.
There’s a seemingly perpetual distance between us until nightfall, where she takes me up into her arms and sweeps me to the bedroom. It is only then that she is affectionate – but it is more than enough to make me happy. For she is an exquisite treasure, a rare delicacy that is sweeter when kept out of reach.
Cruel and cold as she may seem, she’s different when we’re lying together beneath the covers. I am hers. She tells me through soft caresses and occasional kisses, slender arms pulling me in as we rest in silence. It is a simple life and carefree existence, and I relish it greatly.