Two Eyes Cenote [M] A call from Olympus, ringing off the hook

Her chest, weighed. Skin to skin. A dance played again with a different rhythm, a different beat, a different soul. His breath ever near, and the beat of his heart alive. Flesh and blood. Machiavelli could feel then, couldn't he? How hers could have matched his, and yet instead it was violent. A rattling storm of skips and thunder. Rapids tearing at a chipped raft, and it betrayed the calm eyes of the dweller.
A liar.

"Never,"
she tells him in a hush.

Her tongue pushed to the roof of her mouth; the tip of it then lapping at the corners of her mouth. Dry throat. Tail now tapping against the bedding, the stone, sweeping it out of place. The man of gemstones suddenly a tower larger than the temples. A man she had wronged. The immortal felt now mortal. Like she could bleed. Small.