Lion Head Mesa [M]No filter on your mouth

She leaned away, and the man was quick to withdraw, maybe she had changed her mind after all, and she would refuse him once more. He would find another way to mend the rift between them, to lure her back with further tales of elusive white rabbits and the solace of a heartbeat cradled within tender arms, soothing her into a gentle slumber. And in the clouded, muddy mind there was the guilt that was relief, and the relief that was guilt.

So when she pulled back into him, she brought with her a touch of fire that singed, and burned, and heated, and how dare he feel this way when someone wanted him?

She did want him, right?

"Do you want me?" She turned the question on him in hushed tones and half-lidded eyes. And when he responded, his words were not the rehearsed script but a fervent plea, one that sparked with earnestness behind hesitant opal eyes.

I want you to be happy.
I want you to trust me. I don't want you to leave, please god, just don't leave me on my own.
Please.

He was a man, and she, a woman whose scent played upon the primal recesses of his mind like a fiddle. Was it not his duty to revel in the pleasures of flesh? He was a man, after all. It was what was expected of him, forever hungry and lustful. It was the part he played so well.
Then why did it feel so agonizing?

Why did pleasure taste so bitter?

She did want him, right? And he, in turn, desired it because she did.
They wanted this.