Serpent Lake Cinnamon girl

"A treasure?"
Her lips gasped, breathless at that. She'd known many treasures. This man sought one, and through word by word, brought her into an endless wonder. Ever wanting. Ever lost.

What he sought, it must have been something grand.
With widening eyes that traced the stars just beyond his neck, and the bottom of his jaw, her pupils made out diamonds in cold constellations.
"What kind of treasure?"

A story. Oh, how she needed a story and to hear of gold. He had nothing left to lose. Nothing, he said. "Does that mean he's nothing to gain, too?"

She felt wrong.

But oh, she reached again and reached more, dragging her limb enough to feel him. Her eyes narrowed, her thoughts then tight as she touched more, and more, and more. She wanted to feel right. Why didn't she feel right?

She felt wrong more.

"I like stories," she told him in a whisper. And wrong again. Needing just for now, no matter the form, to fall into a trap of gentle. In her own upset, she violently tried to settle it quiet by pressing her jaw to his. A nuzzle, an affection. Skin to skin in soft touch. Something. Anything that would go with these whispers. "Tell me one." So the pain will subside.