Heaven Sent

Chapter Five

                                          Cassandra

Damn, it feels good to be touched.

My back arches towards the slender fingers traveling between my heaving breasts. The skin the cold hand caresses is damp, sensitive, already heightened and aware of pleasure. Roused from sleep, I am already unraveling, coaxed expertly to consciousness.

It's been a very long time since I've ached for hands on my body. For a year, I spent time in the bed of the devil, a god who was rarely gentle or tender when lustful. I went to him high and desperate, feeding my deprived body, but there was never this kind of ache in that place.

The desire to be touched by love.

I knew it was impossible to have that there.

But these hands, they zigzag over my body with intimate familiarity. Still unused to needing breath, I gulp the stuffy air, potent with the scent of my arousal. Elijah's hand drifts between my thighs, invading my warmth. There's a ricochet effect throughout my body.

My heart pumps.

My mind floats into a dizzying haze.

My bones rattle and quiver.

Any discomfort his blood hasn't healed is undetectable while under his skillful hand.

"It's been so long..."

My eyes open to appraise him, to shower him in desires as his soft, smooth lips graze my hipbone but what I find hovering over me is not the seven-hundred year old vampire I fell asleep beside.

"Samael."

The hope in me plummets in his company, watching him smile, possessing the knowledge that he's placed me in one of my nightmares. Too slow to react to his god-like strength, he's climbed over me, rendering me immobile.

"This is beneath you," I seethe, watching his dark eyes take in my unclothed form.

"Is it?" He grabs both sides of my face, unsettlingly gentle. "I could be merely a dream."

I crane my neck, moving until our faces are just inches away from each other, wanting my insult to land effectively.

"I wouldn't dream of you. Not willingly."

His eyes go dead, harboring a frighteningly calm glare. I regard him closely, without regret, wishing there wasn't history between our souls, even if that history was only formed to drive forward someone else's plan.

His thumbs begin to press into the sides of my throat, threateningly.

"You can hurt me all you'd like. You know it will change nothing."

"It will make me feel better."

All ten fingers are clutching my neck now. As he squeezes, and I lose air, I'm helpless to it. I've been subjected to this kind of submission before, this kind of unwilling abuse. My arms are trapped. His grip is excruciating.

My attempts to breathe are explosive, desperate gasps, heaving through my crashing chest.

Like before, but in different circumstances, my heart pumps.

My mind floats into a dizzying haze.

My bones rattle and quiver.

The blood rushes to my face as I begin to squirm, feeling the first sign of impending defeat. My hands claw at his clamping. I begin to fear I'm not in a dream at all.

Is this real? Can he do this?

I could try begging, attempting to find the soft spot I know is inside of him.