Spicy Hot
The controlled collapse of her will beneath mine.
The sun rises, gilding the edges of the curtains. The library, its silent books, its smell of knowledge and dust, waits. It will wait.
For now, there is only this room. This warmth. This endless war of which we are the sole soldiers, the sole witnesses, the sole vanquished and the sole victors.
And the terrible, exhilarating vertigo is that in consuming her, I feel, each time, something within me burning too.