Tu Es Ma Lumière

131 - Bereavement *Modern*

(First bit's a little more rated R than usual, ladies and gentlemen!)

Their skin is sticky and slick with sweat. Their breaths mingle in the millimetres of space between their mouths and noses, only for their kiss-swollen lips to mingle and mash once again. His elbows ache with the strain of supporting his upper body's weight for almost an hour, her fingers entangling themselves and tugging at his long blonde curls. His lips dance from her neck to her jawline, making sure to leave bruises in his wake. Their bodies are bare, his back covered by her bed sheets. They huskily whisper between each other, although it's hardly necessary, being the only ones in the room. 

The bed is border-lining upon dampness from the latest excurgence between the two teenage lovers, the mattress' springs exhaustively croaking as their bodies continued to move together, their erotic waltz hidden from the world, lasting for almost four hours. Their skin is reddened with the effort, throats dry from lack of liquid and constant vocal use. Her inner muscles ache, her legs begin to complain from being wrapped around his waist for such an extended period of time, she's oversensitive from his ministrations, each and every nerve upon high alert, but she cannot stop. She would rather die than cease this moment between them both.

She wasn't sure how this started out. One minute, she's sleeping peacefully, her skin slick with sweat from the summer-autumn place over. The next, he's crawling through her bedroom window, waking her as he strips off his jacket and joins her in bed. A goodnight kiss turns into a passionate ensnarement, the need for comfort increasing by the minute after the horrid few days they had been plagued by. Just for a few hours, they needed an escape from the dread and the accusing eyes and the pointing fingers. And where better could they find an earthly heaven than within each other's arms?

 His fingers graze up her thigh and she lets out a shaky gasp for air. All that comes into her lungs is the heat, the heat from the temperature and from that of the moment. Her fingers tighten in his hair, it's damp from the sweat, but she doesn't care. She unwinds her fingers from the beautiful blonde stands, her nails digging small lines into his back. Her lips and teeth attack his collarbone, making him hiss, gripping her own dampened sea of raven strands. His efforts increase as he pulls her from his skin and pushes her back into the pillows. Her throat is dry and the long, drawn out moan she lets out burns her, but she continues to vocalise her pleasure as he gives it, indulging himself within her.

Her legs tremble as he takes control of the situation, pulling her onto her side. She whimpers, clinging to the sheet that covers her mattress as he nestles comfortably behind her. They are joined once more, she cannot help but bury the back of her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder as they move together, chasing the height of pleasure that they both so desperately crave, the one they can only find intertwined in each others arms. Her eyes flutter closed as his hands wander where they will and where they will not.

But the human body can only handle so much upon one time. He collapses onto her, her eyes fluttering closed with the exhaustion and the protection he had so graciously provided. Lethargically, she began stroking his hair and sighing with drowsiness and contentment, beginning to drift off in a comfortable, warm state of mind and body.

"How're you feeling?" he gruffs into the crook of her neck, his voice husky and thick like he'd just woken up from a long sleep. She closes her eyes again, continuing to strike the pretty blonde strands.

"Okay, I guess." she sighs. "I just don't want to think about it." Mary finishes, her head lolling to the side. She doesn't want to talk or think about it anymore. Right now, all she wants to do is sleep.

"I know the two of you had a falling out 'cause of me and what happened between her and I. But she was still your cousin. Your friend." Francis says. He looks up at her, but she doesn't connect their eyes.

"It doesn't matter, Francis. Her and I were finished a long time before. What happened with you was the nail in the coffin. Literally." she says humourlessly. He sighs.

"You didn't-"

"Of course not. I hated her. I wouldn't get a hitman to run'r off a cliff, Francis." Mary drawls. Her hand tightens on his hair, but she says lucid beneath him.

"I know, I just-" he says no more. "I know you didn't do it. I just can't believe she's gone." he sighs, shifting to get more comfortable upon her.

"Lola died, Francis. We live. We have to focus on that. Neither of us hired any hitman. We didn't have anything to do with it, we don't have to worry about the investigation." she opens her eyes again. "I don't want to think about her anymore. I don't want to think about her ever again. I just want to be with you right now."

"I'm here." he says. Soon after, his body sags with sleep and Mary sighs, looking at the darkened wall next to her.

I don't know who murdered Lola, Francis. Nor do I care. The bitch deserved to die.