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His breathing evens out as he also rolls onto his side, curling into a ball so tight that it’s incongruous on a man of his size.
But he’s facing me.
The more he calms, the more I can look at him, my tears evaporating.
The dream leaves him so suddenly that I can barely believe my eyes. Like it never happened, he stretches out. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I’d think I was making it up.
As he relaxes, the younger Savio appears. He’s less grim, more like the first picture I saw of him that day ‘the boy,’ David McKenna, died. Not unlike that first time, my visceral response to him is off the charts.
But something else hits me before lust can settle in my core.
Without the cloud of fear, misery, terror, and anger dampening everything and my own heartache staining the world in gray, his scent crashes into me.
Absolutely overwhelms me.
His essence is sweet and pure. Frankincense and myrrh.Holysmells. But clean. Soap. Cotton. Then, a dash of spice—just a hint. The heat of before begins to boil away inside me, bubbling like a volcano needing to erupt.
I’ve never wanted a man like Savio. I’ve never experienced these feelings before.
The doctors say my delusions were so powerful that they would overtake everything else, and considering my life before, it fits that I’d find no other attractive.
Savio was an ideal.
A man I held up in my mind’s eye as perfect. He was a martyr on a mission that put him in jeopardy. He was tortured and abused for his pains. He was like a saint in my eyes, a stark contrast to the sinners I came into contact with every day.
Was it any wonder I idolized him?
Is it any wonder that now, even though my situation has changed, all I can still think about is him?
No, he isn’t perfect. If anything, he’s broken. But I was born to be his glue.
Pressing a shaky hand to his chest, my fingers brush over his pecs. The connection settles in me like he pressed his lips to mine. Yet, there’s a faint wetness that, from the street lighting, I know is blood.
The metallic tinge is in the air, shadowing his rich and musky scent, but it’s visceral. Even his blood belongs to me. The urge to coat myself in it, soak in it if it makes me smell like him is all-encompassing.
My pulse thuds in my ears, drowning out the soft sounds of his breathing, pounding deep and low in time to the one in my pussy as I let my fingers trail over the scant whorls of hair above his heart.
I canfeelit beat.
It’s slow and rhythmic, as he’s in deep repose.
I want to touch more of him.
I want to explore him.
But I can’t.
I won’t take his choice away.
I won’t hurt him.
My lip slips between my teeth as I stare at his abs. His body is defined, even in sleep. I noticed before how his veins were thick and raised, and I knew that was a combination of adrenaline andpain flushing throughout his system. Now, I wonder if that has to do with how much he exerted himself.
The cuts on his spine were deep. Scored tracks on his flesh.
They were torn too. Rips and jagged edges that don’t align with a regular lash.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone used barbs for a deeper cut, for a better sting, but Savio had to push it. From what I know of the man, that comes as no surprise.