-----------------------------
The dream is hazy every time.
It’s quick, yet achingly slow.
It’s sublime...
But oh how it just burns so good.
(If only Henrietta knew what it all meant.)
-----------------------------
The sun shines, casts a shadow over the tree as Henri lays bare under the shade. The grass is soft on her back. The breeze cools her skin. Her hands, they—
grasp at her chest in pain, but oh there is sweet pleasure in the way her heart tightens
clenchunclenchclench next to her head until she feels the body next to her move closer.
Familiar, he smells. Like everything sweet and so very sleepy. Sublime, so sublime. Enticing. It makes her turn her head in his direction.
The shadow feels colder against naked skin. Or perhaps it’s the hand that travels upupup her side, skims the plains of her torso—
no more, no more, it makes her shudder and shiver in confusion
until warm fingers hover over her cheek. Her eyes don’t open, even as she feels the body roll over her. On top of her. Pinning her arms in place. Bare skin brushes against bare skin.
A mingling of breath.
Her hands don’t clench. She doesn’t move.
But his lips do. Mouthing soft words against her forehead, eyes, nose, lips—
it's a whisper of a word that she mustn't say to—
Warm. So warm.
And yet.
Yet.
-----------------------------
Henrietta wakes.
(Yet it always burns.)
