She wore her loneliness like a second skin, tight and inescapable, but familiar. The world expected her to seek sunshine: predictable love, safe hands, coffee dates, clean sheets. But something inside her always burned for more. Something darker. Something with teeth.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want love....she did. Desperately. But not the kind that fit in glass jars and polite conversations. She craved a love that bled. One that left bruises of devotion and bit into her like possession. A love that touched the unspeakable corners of her soul. The kind poets warn against and mothers fear.
She found it, finally, in a man she met one early autumn afternoon.
They met in a crumbling chapel turned art gallery, on a storm-bitten night when thunder pressed against the stained glass like some forgotten god trying to get in. He was tall, wrapped in black, with eyes like a burnt hazy blue sky and a mouth that looked made for sin. She watched him from across the room, drawn by something primal, magnetic.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.
He knew what she was the moment their eyes met. Not just a woman but his kind of woman. One who wouldn’t run from the dark but walk toward it, hands open, asking for more. They barely spoke before they left together and her heart pounding like war drums in her chest.
His apartment was all shadows and silence. There were books bound in cracked leather, and a bedroom that smelled faintly of candle wax and lust. He kissed her like she was fire and he had waited centuries to burn.
He touched her like a prayer.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was honest.
He pushed her to the edge of herself. Stripped her down to the marrow, bled her insecurities into the sheets, and whispered truths into her mouth while his fingers read her skin like scripture. He didn’t ask her to be soft. He asked her to be real. He demanded it.
And she gave it to him.
In his arms, she found the dark romance she had only dared imagine: not cruel, but raw; not abusive, but intense. A place where taboo wasn’t shameful, but sacred. Where every moan meant something. Every bruise bloomed like a promise.
In the daylight, he was quiet. Gentle in a way most wouldn’t expect. He brought her tea laced with honey, kissed the marks he'd left the night before, and watched her with eyes that saw too much. She often wondered what he was.....what kind of man could love like this....but she never asked. She didn’t need to.
He made her feel like a cathedral of dark miracles.
And for a woman like her, that was everything.
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