Eternal Night

(II) Chapter 22: La Petite Mort

He was dreaming.

This he understood as soon as the familiar grey mist of rest cleared from his mind's eye, replaced with visions of darkness and warmth.

Vladislaus felt relaxed, yet excited. She was nearby. He could sense her, his Francesca, somewhere in this darkness with him – the scent of roses, the rustling of fabric, and then he felt skin on his, a pair of soft lips and the gentle rush of air at his neck, hands on his chest as a pair of legs moved to straddle his hips. She was perched above him in this dream, dressed in deep indigo blue like she had been that night in Venice, only this gown was loosely fitted and on the verge of slipping off.

The sight of her on top of him was arousing enough on its own, but with her shoulders bare and that swell of unblemished cleavage on display – he was hopelessly ensnared at the sight of her. And then she moved up a little to look into his eyes, her face inches from his, dark hair cascading down one side of her head, a curtain of soft waves and ringlets. Her gaze was smoldering.

"Kiss me," she whispered, and she leaned forward some to lessen the distance.

He smiled, amused at her insistence, but obeyed nonetheless, kissing her softly on the lips, once, twice. The third time was the firmest of all, and he bit her bottom lip as if claiming her. The next had him tasting tongue and he felt all the blood in his body rush southward, his cock hard and straining against the fly of his trousers. She smiled as if she had felt the change in him, and then she moved against him, rubbing herself against the clothed bulge beneath her. His eyes fluttered shut as he involuntarily bucked up a little to meet the cradle of her hips with a groan.

The friction was delicious.

She moved again, rolling her hips slowly, purposefully, and his hands slid up to her waist, holding her firmly atop of him as he trembled beneath her. The more she rocked, the more the darkness retreated around them, the consuming black being replaced by a spark and then a brilliant fire that mirrored the intensity of his building arousal.

"Touch me," she whimpered between kisses, the command sounding more like a desperate plea, as if she were on the edge of something that only he could carry her over.

His hands slipped beneath the bunched up skirt of her gown, smoothing over her thighs before grabbing hold of her ass. He dug the tips of his fingers into the soft, bare flesh. She crooned wantonly, pressing herself harder against him as if in reward, increasing the pressure building at the base of his spine.

"More," she begged him, straightening, running her own hands along the column of her neck and then down. She grabbed hold of the low collar of her dress, bunching it in her fists and pulling as if it were restricting her. The action freed more of her bosom to his greedy gaze.

It nearly undid him and instinctually he reached up to help her, fingers tangling in the laces of her bodice before tugging until he could hear the garment ripping.

"Yes! More... more..."

Whatever restraint he had possessed faltered.

He yanked her gown hard, the action sending her down against his chest and their next kiss seared his mouth. Vladislaus became vaguely aware of the needy pulsing in his groin, yet their bodies weren't close enough, never enough. He wanted to be in her, seated fully, buried to the hilt and entirely lost. Before he could roll her over to take this to the next level, she sat up straight again, hands firmly on his chest, holding him beneath her. She rode him, hips gyrating in a rhythmic, purposeful movement, her dark hair open and wild like a lion's mane, mahogany waves cascading over her shoulders and blocking the sight of her newly freed breasts from his view.