The Love TalkerbyMorrighan1143©
I met the Love-Talker one eve in the glen,
He was handsomer than any of our handsome young men...
His lips curved, but she could never say he truly smiled. Whatever emotion deepened in his dark eyes, whatever glowed like a slow crackling fire there, it was not joy. Pleasure. Hot and demanding, slow and consuming, it was the pleasure of possession.
His name was Michael James Doyle and his was a wicked beauty. Black hair and coal-black eyes, a tall man formed in such perfect lines that she wondered if there were a geometry to explain him. The harsh plane of high cheekbones, the square jaw, the broad curve of forehead and waving black hair. Broad shoulders, trim waist, smooth brown skin over musculature of Grecian perfection. His hands, long-fingered, deft and large enough to close around her wrists and hold her irresistibly...playing coy? he asked with that smug rumble of satisfaction in his voice. He was the rock she would batter herself against.
Moonlight striped the small room through the narrow bars of the open window blinds and Michael slept, thick lashes curving over his cheeks. That sensuous mouth relaxed, his long body as loose and lazy as a cat's. The room was bare: plaster walls, wide bed with white sheets and a simple wooden headboard, two nightstands, and the rumple of their clothes scattered over the floor.
Katherine would never know when he found her. She would not know how he studied her, a self-possessed woman pleased with her life. Even in the bustle of Manhattan, he thought of poetry when he saw her. She walks in beauty or her eyes as stars of twilight fair. More often than not her eyes were far away, lost in her own thoughts. She moved quickly, gracefully, an unconscious sway of hip and long-legged strides.
She called herself Kate and she was content, a round of work, friends, a jog in the park or an afternoon's shopping. Her features were drawn gently as if by an artist that hardly dared to outline the curves of his creation. Wide eyes, almost more green than blue, and honey-colored hair that waved past her shoulders.
But there were many beautiful women in the world, and he wanted more than beauty. He watched her walk. He smiled. Stood. And slid through the crowded tables of the sidewalk cafe to introduce himself.
Two weeks without him and her dreams were erotic nightmares.
Michael consumed her. Her temples throbbed, her body ached, and she dreamed of him in that room where the curtains blew over them in the night wind, a touch of cool linen. In her own bed, her fists clenched in her sleep and her breath was harsh, her golden hair deepened to bronze with an eager sweat. Michael, she moaned in her dream, and Michael she whispered in her sleep.
He would speak, oh, how he would speak. One hand in her hair, digging deep, pulling her head against the wall so he could whisper into her ear, pausing to bite her neck or draw her earlobe between his teeth. His breath seared her sensitive skin with blended obscenity and passion.
"How you moan when it's me in you," he murmured, and looked at her with slitted eyes, his honey beauty with her tumbled hair, her blouse open and half off, her skirt pushed up to her waist and half on. "When it's my cock in you, darling, and my hands on you, how hot and wet you are for me when I'm fucking you..."
She was. One hand grasped her thigh and lifted, pushing her open, leaving her on tiptoe with his body pressed against hers. His grip hurt her, but she didn't mind that. A little pain only fanned the flames higher.
He shifted his stance and thrust up, in, deep. There, she would have said if she could speak, there, there, there, again, oh please God... but she couldn't speak and he was speaking for her, murmuring his love into her ears with hot breath and lips that bent, dipped, bit. One hand closed over her rounded breast and tugged her nipple gently, circled the areola until it tightened and throbbed. Her whole body was a clenched fist, closed around him and holding tight.
"...open for me more, you want more, don't you? Ah my love, my darling, my sweet honey sweet, take all of me..."
She did, their bodies slick with perspiration, her skin glowing white against his smooth brown hide, her eyes squeezed shut. Up, in, deep. Deeper, she thought, and he did: the wind blew chill on her sweat-damp skin and he warmed her to burning, yanking her hair to tip her head back and nipping along the slim column of her throat. Hot tongue, gliding over her skin. Sharp teeth, devouring, marking her, and every bite said mine, his grasping hands said mine, and his cock inside her was mine, my Katherine, my honey sweet, you want me, you have me, don't you? Don't you?
"Open your eyes for me, watch me watch you."
Her eyes flew open, deep and dark as the sea. He was the rock the sea broke against. He thrust harder, faster, his hips pistoning mercilessly.
"Faster?" He rasped. He wanted her to say it now.
"My love, my own. Harder? Oh my Katherine..."
"Harder," she moaned, and her nails bit deep into his shoulders. "Harder, Michael, please, oh, please!"
And there was no wall behind her, there was no barren room, there was no cool linen but only hot skin and hard flesh, flickering tongue, biting teeth, skilled hands that slid over every part of her and set her ablaze. Faster. Faster. She panted, she melted into him, every nerve centered at the core of her where he was pounding, pounding, gasping and swearing into her skin as he felt her grip his cock like wet stretched satin.
Now. Now. Now. It was too much and still she wanted more, more of his hands and lips and teeth and tongue and cock, the wet lash of his tongue against her nipples as she pushed back against his chest, dug her nails into his skin, and came. She felt him finish inside her in a burst of molten heat, a sudden thrust that drove her breath from her lungs, her heart into her throat. His breath burned her and she felt the throb of him as if it were her own rabbiting heart.
"My Katherine," he whispered, and his kiss was like a velvet cage.
Had he been there?
Had she dreamed?
She couldn't think anymore. Work, friends, coffee, shopping, a jog in the park. The city had shrunk to that room, the bed, the floor, the shower where he had her in the mornings. He was perfect and he was nothing, a blank page where she wrote her desires. During the day she remembered what he had done to her and was lost, burning hot and cold at her desk, aching.
It wasn't normal, surely. Remembered pleasure should only be a memory. It shouldn't consume.
But oh, she was consumed.
It took weeks, but she finally told him. In the room--always the room, never their room--she said that it was too much.
Her belly clenched and suddenly she wanted him again, wanted him so fiercely that it pounded in her head and her tongue felt clumsy and slow. She had never been so terrified in her life.
"I'm not ready for a relationship," she said, and forced herself to stand up straight and look the man in the eye, for God's sake. "I'm sorry, but I need to focus on other things now."
She needed to focus, full stop. Her hands knotted themselves into fists when she looked at him, calm and accepting, but with a glint of humor in his black, black eyes.
"Of course," he said, and his voice was warm and affectionate. "Whatever is best for you, darling."
That was the first time.
And then she went back to that room as if he had called her. Day after day she had thought of it. At work. With friends. She remembered his voice, my Katherine, my sweet honey sweet, and she burned.
He came to her there as if he had known she would come. Michael Doyle closed the door behind him and stood just inside the room, the barren little space that might have been a hotel room or castoff home for vagabond lovers. He didn't speak; didn't move to touch her. Black eyes, the careless knot of his tie and undone collar, his sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up over his forearms.
She took one step toward him, words--what words?--on her lips. They died unuttered and he swept her onto the bed, his eyes dark with deep and languorous pleasure.
That was the first time. There would be a second.
And a third, and a fourth, at foolish intervals. She could deny him nothing, in the end: no part of her body, no part of herself. He had her ass and she was ashamed. He coaxed and teased her and whispered darling, and her lips parted to take him, draw him deep, and pleasure him until he hummed deep in his throat with satisfaction.
She had possessed herself all her life and now he possessed her.
She could never believe the things she let him do to her, but she couldn't stop him. It was indefinable, inexplicable, nothing crass or vulgar. When he took her to dinner her treated her like a lady, his beloved, his honey sweet. His hand at the small of her back, the smile of his perfect teeth when he refilled her wine glass and spoke of poetry or the theater.
Then he would take her home, shove her face into the sheets, and fuck her ass while she wore her fine jewelry and elegant dress, his hands biting into her thighs until she bruised. He made her come with his hard cock in her ass and his fingers plucking her nipples and told her how he loved her when he did it.
"Don't go," he murmured, drawing her naked body against him. He had done the same yesterday, and the day before. She had called work with a voice thick with desire and feigned illness.
Had she slept?
Was she dreaming?
His fingers teased her while she was on the phone, his lips closed over a nipple and tugged lightly. Her breath caught.
"I will," she said, and the phone dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers. He was inside her again and she ached, she hurt, and her thighs closed eagerly around his hips. His hands bound her wrists, pinned her down, and she dissolved into blind red ecstasy.
It was the last time and it was different. She lost time, she lost herself, she cried his name and sobbed that she loved him, and he took, he took, he took, he burned away everything but pleasure and came in her again, and again, pounding her into sodden sheets, pushing her against the cold wall and fucking her from behind. Onto the floor to alternate ass and pussy, suck my cock now my Katherine, my darling, crude and loving, caressing and merciless. Tell me how you love me.
A shower so hot she was dizzy and cool sheets, smelling thick of sex, he opened her with fingers and tongue, made her come, fucked her again, his eyes black and burning, lift your sweet ass, darling, she came, look at my cock inside you, my love, and she came. Tell me how you love me.
Moonlight striped the small room through the narrow bars of the open window blinds and cool linen swept her cheek. The room was empty. Sometimes Michael Doyle had made her wait. Sometimes an hour, even two. Then he would come back. He would. He always said he loved her.