If I put my writing into genres, this one would be HORROR. I don't know what came over me when I wrote this, but here it is. Also, there is some hinted schmexy-time. Nothing explicit...
That night was as good as any, even though the couch might have been a bad decision. My back was sore from the arm of the couch, did you not know that I was lying on it? Or did you like the flush of my cheeks when you realized I was in pain?
Maybe I did let you hug me and kiss the base of my neck. Maybe I didn’t want you to stop. Maybe the goosebumps on my skin were really from my pleasure.
But too bad it wasn’t love.
Lust is a terrible thing, really. It’s what makes me keep coming back, every Friday night. I’m giving you a false sense of security, and you’re giving me one too. But maybe I won’t come next Friday, and what will you do then? Will you still want me, just as badly? Or will you turn me away the next time you see me?
We both know it isn’t love.
We are very similar in many ways, perhaps the most intimate of ways. Like how fascinating blood seems to be. You are beautiful in life, imagine how beautiful you will be in death, when the blood stains your face. When your restless eyes are blank, and they fulfill my wishes to look me in the eye.
And even in death, when you are beautiful.
Even then it won’t be love.
But at least there will be beauty, if nothing else.
So don’t worry, I will be there next Friday. I will still be waiting on your doorstep. I’ll be coming every Friday, until I can no longer control these darker desires of mine, and I finally bring my three sided, antique dagger to your house. And somewhere amidst the thrashing of limbs, there will be a wonderful scream, and it won’t be one of happiness. And horror will set across your face, transforming it in those last moments. For the first time, it will be beautiful.
Too bad it wasn’t love.
