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song of songs

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He always thought it strange, how it was called falling in love.

Falling isn’t what he’d use to describe mornings like this—when he and Chloe are a naked, tangled mess of limbs and silk sheets pressed so tightly together, it is impossible to discern the borders that evince they are two figures instead of one.

He is on the precipice of willful wakefulness and lulling reverie, in no desperate hurry to tip on either side. That is—

Till he senses the shift in their atmosphere… her breath hitching and her thighs subtly rubbing together, and just like that.

All of him comes awake.

And though her back is to him, he knows she is too, if the manner with which she sinks those lithe, downy curves that much deeper into the hard dips of his torso is any indication.

But she is a playful one—this embodiment of effulgence that holds his heart—as she feigns slumber and quite convincingly, too. Save for the tiniest hint of a curl at the corner of her lips that all too easily gives her game away.

“Chloe,” he murmurs onto her nape. “Chloe, Chloe…

His only response is her nose burying deeper into her pillow, but it is plenty invitation for him, as it grants him unfettered access to the elegant slope of her neck. He props his head up to better observe her reactions—the lines of laughter crinkling the sides of her shut stare, the decadent rush of blood blooming from her chest to her cheeks—but not before swooping to plant open-mouthed kisses, his tongue leaving wet trails of ardor along the camber of her shoulder all the way to her toned bicep.

Still, she does not stir beyond her enchanting smile.

He grows bold, fingers drifting lower to tweak at all ready hardened peaks. His efforts are rewarded when she arches into his touch, his palms gratuitous with the bounty of her soft breasts. Perhaps he should linger, given the favor with which she grants him with her response, her digits tightening around the covers as she leans heavily onto him. Except he is eager—always eager—for the nirvana that awaits him between her legs.

Maybe she is too, given how easily she blossoms for him, when he dips into her sex to discover she is slick with want, uncaring as he is whether her wetness is remnants from their love-making the night previous or a renewed fervor at their carnal deeds come morning light. Either way, she is a fount upon which her waters are exclusive to him, and Lucifer is nothing—if not an opportunist.

She comes apart for him, slowly, beautifully, and when he sucks his fingers into his mouth, the taste of her—tangy like pomegranates, sweet like bottled stars—and the smell of her—of myrrh and honeycomb and utter perfection—fills him with a rush unmatched by any substance that was and could ever be concocted by humanity or otherwise.

“My beloved,” he purrs, stroking lightly at the bundle of nerves at her mound so that her pleasure is drawn taut and long, body twitching rapturously. “Won’t you let me into your garden?”

The words are whispered hotly onto her cheek, lips ghosting dangerously, deliciously, close to her own.

She is barely nodding when he slides smoothly into her, a consummation so profound and immaculate, he wonders how he could’ve settled for anything lesser than her.

They are waves cresting, and winds billowing… time a meaningless concept when they ascend the highest ring of ecstasy together.

“I belong to my lover,” he avers when he comes, and only then does she open her eyes. Only then do their gazes meet, and hers is the ocean after an endless stretch of desert, the cerulean sky following a ceaseless torrent.

“…and his desire is for me,” she breathes, consecrating the vow with a kiss.

No, he would not call this falling.

He is in love—

And he is flying.