No, she couldn't believe it. Despite technically irrefutable evidence provided by the government, it just wasn't conceivable that her gloriously sadistic lover was a typical married man cheating on his wife. It was entirely possible that he didn't live across the field at all, that she had simply assumed he did because he had walked away in that direction the evening they met, and because she had seen him there last night. Yet he had to live around here somewhere, it was the only way he could have known she had just moved in and brought her a welcome basket.
Only her body was superficially relieved to step inside out of the cold, the rest of her was numb with despair. Her lover was a married man, a married man! She cursed herself for prying, for trying to find out where he lived, for not just patiently waiting for him to get in touch with her again. Yet if he was married, it was better she found out now, wasn't it, before she fell in love with him? The word “before” struck her soul like a blow. It was far too late to think of “before” when it came to him, there had never been a “before” except in the sense that she had somehow known him before they even met. Oddly enough, in the face of adversity, she was absolutely certain there was nothing wrong with her psychologically; that she wasn't suffering from imaginative delusions. It had felt absolutely right to call him “my lord” just as she had in her dream. She had somehow known him before they made love, and she certainly knew him now, no doubt about that, she just didn't have any real facts about him other than the impossible ones provided by the postal service. Instead of a phone number where she could reach the man she was fucking, she had an old oak tree. Before the conversation with her mail carrier, she had considered this romantic, it had made poetic sense; stashing a handwritten “love” letter in a tree was like something out of another century, merging him even more indelibly with the man in her dreams. Yet was it romantic, or was it simply the only way he could communicate with her because he was married?
There were no answers to all the agonizing questions suddenly buzzing in her head like a disturbed wasp's nest. If she wasn't going to sit around in a miserable stupor all day she had to stop asking them and just wait, the hardest thing on earth to do.
She took off her jacket and gloves and went into the bathroom. She swept the hair away from her neck. The bite marks were fading, but they were still clearly there. Every night she inspected the bed sheets carefully, and so far nothing else had bitten her, thank God. She glanced at her face, and was pleasantly surprised by how pretty she looked with her cheeks flushed from her brisk walk out in the cold, and with her brown irises glowing like tiger's eyes as the memory of last night kept replaying in the back of her mind no matter what else she was thinking about. She was beautiful, and remembering this made her feel better, not because it appealed to her vanity but because it gave her a glimpse into his perspective. Gazing at her reflection, she understood why he was attracted to her, why she had been able to inspire him enough to fuck her the way he had, and why he would want to come back. The possibility that he was married wasn't necessarily the end of the world; there was such a thing as a divorce. After all, she had essentially been married herself less than a month ago. She had never cheated on Steve, but she had thought about it more than once, and if she had met John, she didn't doubt for a moment she would have been unfaithful with him. She couldn't judge a man she knew nothing about yet. All she knew for sure was that she needed to see him again, to be with him, to give herself to him no matter how dangerous or forbidden it was.
Chapter Eleven
A fter the sun had set behind the clouds, Sofia poured herself a glass of wine, sat down at the computer, logged onto the Internet, and deleted her profile on match.com. With a grim smile on her face, she ignored the appalled screams of protest issuing from a part of her brain that insisted she was cutting herself off from the world and perilously throwing herself into the arms of a potentially married man. Deleting her profile online was an act of rational suicide that felt wonderful to her soul. It was an act of faith; the first cut of a sword defending her intensifying belief in something other than what the small part of her brain she was using could clearly understand. At all cost she would defend her feelings and intuition no matter how lost she might appear to be in fantasies and dreams with no bearing on reality. That was no longer even the case; she had received stunning proof John was someone she definitely wanted to get to know whether they had been together in a past life or not. He had fucked her the way she had always dreamed of being fucked.
He's not married, she thought. He's not married. He's not married! Her mission accomplished, she deliberately ignored all the messages in her hotmail inbox and shut off the computer. She went and sat on the loveseat in front of the fire. She wasn't really conscious of the fact that she was crying until she felt salty tears cynically scalding her cheeks, surprising her, because deep down she was feeling very positive. This was her punishment for trying to find out more about John by way of a third-party who couldn't possibly know him as she already did. Her dreams were in his hands now and she was possessed by a growing excitement—by faith that he was man enough to make them come true. The book of Romanian Lute Player songs was sitting on the table in front of her. She reached out and flipped it open.
Alone*
Beside the fire thou toldest me
Some tale, and thou didst watch the fire,
That so thou might'st not see my tears.
Into the fire my tears flowed down,
Then to the tears thus spake the fire:
"And would ye quench me?"
There was a rumble of thunder. She sat up alertly, listening beyond the crackling of the fire for another sign that the storm which had been brewing for two days had finally arrived. The atmosphere might get some relief even if she didn't ... yes, there it was again, the deep, heavenly groan caused by phallic lightning flashes in the distance...
As if obeying a cosmic cue, she took her wine glass into the bedroom, set it down on the nightstand, and began undressing. She sensed in her blood that he wouldn't make her wait another night for him. She was no longer listening to her mind, which was always annoyingly reminding her that she could be wrong about everything. The poem she had written had given her soul a haunting boost of confidence and centered her in a much deeper part of herself which knew things without understanding how; a part of her that didn't for one instant doubt in the veracity of her perceptions even though she could not prove her conclusions in any rational court of law.
She switched the bedside lamp to its dimmest setting. Despite the fact that the heat was turned down and it was quite cold in her house except for around the fireplace, she stripped off her layers of clothes standing in front of the French doors. Thunder drummed again overhead and she allowed herself to be possessed by the arousing sense that she was on display. He could be out there looking in on her, watching her figure gilded by the light as she slipped slowly out of her black leggings. Her cozy white socks went next, followed by a gray sweater and the black T-shirt she was wearing beneath it. Only her black bikini panties remained, and she deliberately kept them on as she walked back to the fire to warm herself up for a minute before quickly returning to the bedroom as if he was actually there waiting for her.
Once more facing the French doors, she slipped her panties down her legs, stepping out of them gracefully and kicking them aside disdainfully. She was so cold her skin clung tautly to her bones. Her nipples ached they were so hard as she pressed her breasts against the glass, straining to see out into the night. She didn't turn on the outside lights to better appreciate the drama of the storm, and she was rewarded by a vivid flare that illuminated the open field beyond her trees. The almost simultaneous roar of thunder was so loud she slapped her palms against the glass to brace herself. She held her breath until lightning struck again, gasping with pleasure as the silver light imprinted the silhouettes of trees on her retinas, and the inescapable rumbling of the atmosphere crashed through her brain in an audio landslide, sweeping all annoying thoughts
away by completely rooting her in her receptive senses. The wind had picked up and was working its way through the forest in caressing gusts made even more hauntingly urgent by the formless power behind them. She could hear the agitated rustling of Magnolia branches through the glass. Logic said he wouldn't show up on a night like this, yet with every explosive flash she experienced a stab of excitement that made it clear her body felt otherwise. She was so turned on by the violently sensual spectacle of the storm, combined with the possibility that the man she called “my lord” might actually enter her home again soon, that she kept having to resist the urge to lie back across the bed and bring herself to a climax. She wanted to wait as long as possible before dulling the edge of her arousal.
"Thank you for this place, Robert,” she said out loud. She hoped his spirit wasn't too shocked by her recent behavior. She didn't believe he could actually see her now, but she liked to think her feelings could somehow become the atmosphere around him if he chose to visit her in her dreams.
It began to rain, the sudden downpour drumming against the roof and on the boards of the porch nearly deafening her in all the right ways—every skeptical, supposedly realistic thought was drowned out, allowing her hopes and feelings to bloom passionately as she absorbed the unrestrained force beating down on the body of her house.
She cried out during a deafening boom that electrified all her primal nerve ends as she stepped instinctively away from the glass. She realized there was the very real danger of tornadoes, of a tree being struck and falling across her roof, but these possible threats couldn't ruin how thrilled she was by the atmosphere's power. The relentless pounding of the rain, the penetrating flashes of lightning and the groaning of thunder was all intensely sensual. She was about to retreat to the bed and bring herself to a climax when the silver pulses illuminating the darkness seemed to give sudden life to a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette standing out on her porch. She gasped, and then joyfully opened the door. The torrential downpour filled her room with a cresting wave of sound as John quickly stepped inside.
She slammed the door closed behind him, but not soon enough; the wind licked the front of her body with a cold wet tongue, making her shiver as her nipples turned to stone. He was soaking wet, yet his black hair looked almost the same slicked back against his skull, and water glistened in lovely glimmering droplets down his black leather jacket. She was the one who was trembling, her arms wrapped around herself as she watched him zip open his jacket and wrench it off impatiently. He slipped a hand beneath her hair, gripped her by the back of the neck, and pulled her to him.
All the sensual violence of the storm outside felt contained in his kiss as she was swept away on it, forced to submit to his determined exploration of her mouth as if the answer to every possible secret was buried in it. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, grateful for his warm strength against her chilled flesh. It seemed impossible that he was there and yet absolutely right as she wondered how she could possibly have gotten through the night if he hadn't arrived.
He moved his hand to her face and kept it turned up to his. “You were waiting for me,” he observed, clutching one of her ass cheeks with his other hand and squeezing it painfully. “Did you miss me?"
"Yes, my lord!"
"You're a fascinating woman, Sofia."
"It wouldn't affect how I feel about you, I can't help how I feel about you, but I'm really hoping you're not married, John."
"Not anymore."
"Thank God!"
"Thank me. He joined us together, but I'm the one who separated us."
"Thank you, my lord. God, I can't imagine ... I feel so sorry for her. How could she possibly stand to lose you?"
"She thought I was a sadistic bastard, that's how. But you don't seem to have a problem with that, do you?"
"No,” she whispered, holding his eyes. She knew she didn't need to tell him he could do whatever he wanted to her.
He swept her up in his arms, carried her over to the bed, and spread her across it so her head and shoulders rested comfortably against a pillow. She gazed up at him almost worshipfully as he in turn regarded her sternly, his mouth hard and his eyes impenetrably dark in the dim light. He seated himself on the edge of the bed and she arched her back, straining for his kiss even as she kept her arms resting submissively at her sides, the way she had last night. Without taking his eyes off her face, he raised her head with one hand and with the other swept her hair above her head so it cascaded across the pillow. She knew the lamplight brought out the golden highlights in its light-brown depths; she could see how beautiful she was in his eyes as he stared down at her so seriously she suffered a stab of anxiety sharpened by excitement wondering what he had planned for her.
"Sofia,” he whispered, brushing the ball of his left thumb across her brow, and then along the hollow of her cheekbone, as his right hand gently turned her face away, exposing the side of her neck still marred by the mysterious bite mark.
She held her breath, suddenly afraid. Her heart began beating faster, echoing the urgent pounding of the rain. She was looking in the direction of the French doors, and she saw lightning fork in luminous veins across the darkness as he bent towards her. He was the shadow cast by the bolt of electricity rising from the earth into the sky as pain flashed hot and blinding through her body. She cried out in fear because this wasn't a love bite by any stretch of the imagination; it truly felt like he was intent on sinking his teeth into her neck. She tried to push him away, but he caught her wrists and pinned them firmly over her head against the cool mantle of her hair.
"Oh, my God!” she gasped. “My God! My God!” She couldn't bear the threatening agony another second, she had to ask him what the hell he was doing, she had to beg him to stop, and yet she didn't, she couldn't, the sensation was so intense her body found it irresistible. She couldn't believe he was biting her neck like a vampire even as she seemed to feel her hot blood rushing from her pussy through her heart and willingly up into his mouth. He made a vicious, guttural sound deep in his own throat as she spread her legs and arched her back, her cunt aching to be penetrated with the same utterly unyielding strength, her misery intensified by how completely he ignored her writhing body. When he pulled back she went completely limp; he no longer needed to pin her wrists over her head for her to keep them there as he stared down at her.
"Have you always been this submissive?” he asked quietly.
"No, only with you, John,” she whispered.
He waited.
"My lord!"
"They say it takes three bites, Sofia. Do you believe that?"
"I don't know ... what happens after three bites?"
"You're mine forever."
"I already am,” she dared to confess.
"And why do you think that is?” He gazed down the length of her body, running his hand lightly over her skin from between her breasts down to just above her sex, cruelly teasing her by resting it there, his fingers ignoring how deeply her pussy longed for them, for any hard and penetrating part of him.
"You read my dreams?” she asked helplessly.
"Yes. They would seem to explain some things."
She couldn't see any blood on his lips, but the side of her neck was throbbing and she couldn't be sure the hot wetness wasn't her blood...
"I feel like I've been waiting for you all my life, Sofia."
She moaned and clutched the pillow above her head, resisting the temptation to push his hand down between her legs. He was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt that intensified her longing to see his bare chest. “And I've been waiting for you!” she exclaimed breathlessly.
"And what have you been doing while you waited?” He kept his right hand resting firmly on her belly while he unbuckled his belt.
"Being with the wrong man."
"He never realized how kinky you are?"
"No, and if he had, he would have thought there was something wrong with me."
"Maybe there is.” He stood up and
whipped off his black leather belt, slipping it with practiced ease through the loops. “Maybe it's the same thing that's wrong with me because of what happened between us in a past life,” he added. He dropped the belt on the bed beside her and unzipped his jeans.
"I don't know ... I've always had vivid dreams, but not like those..."
"You need a safe word.” He pulled off his shirt and flung it behind him. “I should have given you one the other night, but you didn't seem to want one."
"No...” She stared at his open fly, but he was wearing black underpants beneath his black jeans, so she fixed her eyes hungrily on his bare chest. His pecs were as firm as she had felt they were, and completely smooth. The only hair on him was a thin black line that stretched all the way from his heart down to his crotch, its flow broken by the tight little indentation of his navel. There was something feral about it that matched his goatee and made her pussy so wet she moaned in despair at his patience.
"So, what's it going to be, Sofia?” He reached down and yanked off one of his boots.
"I don't know ... what do you mean?"
He removed his other boot. “Your safe word."
"Do I really need one?"
"Oh, yes.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips that was truly sinister.
"Cobzar, that's a Romanian lute player."
"Cobzar ... well, that's different. Cobzar it is.” He pushed his jeans and underwear down and she got her first real look at his cock.
Even only partially erect, the dimensions of his penis were all she could have hoped for. Male striptease slang crossed her mind as she thought, He's definitely a grower! and she definitely preferred growers because you never knew how big and hard they could get; it all depended on how inspired they were ... on how turned on she had the power to make him...
He stepped out of his jeans and discarded them as indifferently as he had the rest of his clothing. She bent her knees and spread her legs a little more, showing him the effect his naked body had on her even as she kept her arms raised submissively over her head. With Steve she had always been in control during sex, which had dulled the edge of her arousal even more than she realized. She was so aroused now that she felt profoundly languid. A man's legs usually disappointed her, they were either too stocky or too thin, but John's looked perfect to her, muscular and yet slender without being in the least bit scrawny. He was circumcised, and as his erection grew, responding to the appreciative caress of her eyes, she licked her lips, relishing how defined the head of his dick was, thick and distinct from the shaft, easily able to fill her throat and gag her...
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