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In His Room

It was the kind of sunlight you’d only imagine in the movies. But it was there, picking up the dust motes from the air, lightly framing the legs of a wooden chair. It peeked through the half-drawn curtains.

I stretched in the bed, taking in the wonderful smells that was Him. He was nowhere to be seen, but a little note with sprawling, spidery-looking handwriting was stuck onto an ornate table lamp by the bedside. I plucked it up, and settled back into the downy pillows to read it. It simply said, “Out hunting. Back in the evening. Will miss you, my love. ~ E.”

His smell was everywhere, pervading the neat, glass-walled room. New-cut grass, fresh falling rain, the scent of earth in a wet forest, a meadowful of flowers, a hint of blood.

I snuggled back into bed, remembering the feel of His cold lips pressed against mine. His porcelain skin against my olive-skinned length. His liquid gold eyes, penetrating into my own dark ones, as I lay beneath Him like a weeping willow, my black hair fanned out like a sheet of silk on the pillow, my love and ecstasy beyond any words, descriptions or sounds.

He flew me to the Moon and back. Silenced me forever.

Could this be real? Perhaps this was a dream that I would wake up from? I buried my face into His pillow, the one with the blue case, all manly and stuff, willing it to be that this wasn’t just a dream. That I was, indeed, in His room. And that He was mine. And I, His

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