She is sharp as sugar, sweet as sin, and her breath is thick in Zechs's ear.
He holds her. He cradles her in the circle of his arms. He drowns her. She is so fragile at this late hour, broken down by the day into a million pieces he strives to mend.
He hopes one day she will have the strength to do the same for him.
He kisses her. His lips shiver as they brush her cheek. He overwhelms her. He whispers into her ear all things that she needs to hear.
He fails when the words fall empty in the small space between them.
He worships her. He fucks her with his hands and his mouth. He defiles her. He tells her how much he loves her.
He hates her for the way she makes him feel unclean.
The next time it is the same, and the next, and the next. Before he knows it, there is a ritual to it all. To the way she slips into his room and puts her arms around his neck. To the way she curls in on herself and her eyes are wet like the sheets beneath her.
To the way they sleep without dreams in their nest of ashes.
Brother, make me yours...
He needs her. He smoothes her hair with his hands, tells her that they should stop. She needs him. He presses a kiss to her forehead, to her neck, to her belly. And when he pushes his fingers greedily into the heat of her cunt, he sucks marks into the softness of her thighs.
He makes her come.