by Anastasia,P.
The walls were mostly bare, with few embellishments besides a couple of stock images in small picture frames hanging in odd places along the stairwell leading to the second floor.
One step after the other, the stairs were creaky and the layer of dust on the banister was an indication that they hadn’t been used in years. There were three rooms upstairs: a small bathroom, a cheaply furnished guest room—not of his doing, as he had better taste than that—and a small library with several dozen books stacked up along the walls. Some new, some old. The incredible scent of aging paper filled the room.
The carpet was thick and plush on the second floor and felt more inviting to my bare feet than the hardwood finish on the main floor. Matthaya’s room was downstairs, however, and he’d more than invited me to stay with him there.
But, upstairs, the carpet was wonderfully soft.
I jogged back down the staircase and a brief look toward the patio windows revealed a soft, amber-haloed moon.
I smiled.
Harvest moons were rare and the sight of them had always made me feel good. The warm sun-kissed orange color was… magical.
Speaking of magic…
I wanted to make him happy. Somehow.
It seemed like once I had changed, he had forgotten every last subtlety of mortality. The consuming lack of warmth and emotion had now choked what little passion he had had left from his veins. There had to be a way to make him feel something again.
Then I remembered the kiss from earlier and how Matthaya had been awkward and uncomfortable—two things that shouldn’t characterize an exchange between lovers. A kiss was supposed to be passionate and soothing, and each accompanying breath instinctual and reactive to the next.
A single breath alone was meaningful.
Habitual.
Now, breathing came only from will alone as it was no longer necessary to survive. Sighs and scoffs were forced and calculated. They had to be relearned, and the subtle nuance of a single breath was out of reach and distant—soon to be forgotten even by me.
I had a strong enough grasp on my memories to recall the intricacies of what he had long since forgotten. It might be a leap of faith, but I would try to help him remember what it meant to take an unnecessary breath…
Wrapping my mind around my idea, I walked down toward the large master bedroom at the end of the hall and entered quietly. It was the only room in the house pleasant in its own way. The colors were deep and welcoming, the fabrics intricate and soft, and the heavy carved-wood bed frame added a touch of grandeur.
Matthaya sat stretched out on the bed, his legs relaxed straight out before him, his back propped up against the elegant headboard, and a copy of a book by Hemingway cracked open between his hands. A whiff of sulfur tickled my nose. A recently-lit candle flickered on the dresser beside him, and the golden light refracted off his eyes when he glanced at me.
We didn’t need to exchange words much anymore, now that our minds were linked. It felt right just to be near him. I stepped closer and he lowered the book into his lap. I climbed up onto the mattress and moved toward him. My fingers pinched the book by the cover, pulled it from his hands, and then laid it off to the side. His eyebrows furrowed at my actions and his lips moved as if they were deciding whether or not to question me.
I raised a knee up over his legs, inched closer to him, and then sat back against his knees. I took one of his hands and lifted it to my chest, placing it just above my sternum and pressing it there.
My hands took their places, one on each side of his face, and the delicate touch of my thumbs against his cheeks silenced him.
I closed my eyes.
I concentrated and remembered.
How it felt to love… and be loved.
How fulfilled it made me feel to sit with him each night near my mother’s grave and do nothing more than talk of simple things.
The beauty of his eyes.
The sweet comfort of his company.
I tried hard to remember it all, but then the memories resurrected something else, too.
My lips tightened in an effort to disguise a muffled groan as visions of Derek invaded my thoughts and I fought to keep them from reaching Matthaya.
He didn’t need to know about my mistakes.
I regretted it, but there had been times I had felt Matthaya when Derek had held me in his arms. And there had been other times when I had tasted Matthaya when Derek had kissed me. Maybe it had been a terrible thing to do, but I hadn’t been able to help it at the time.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly… deliberately… audibly…
And another breath, filling my lungs with the warm atmosphere around us and willing every cell in my body to relive the passion I had poured into my dreams each night—longing only for Matthaya.
A BREATH POURED FROM MY lips involuntarily; I felt the rise and fall of Kathera’s chest beneath my palm and gasped. I was overwhelmed—possessed by her thoughts and unable to resist the actions my body took.
I reacted to the intrusion of her thoughts and fought it for a moment—the control she gained over me—but then I stopped resisting. Why would I fight her? Why would I push her out when all I wanted was to let her in?
“Don’t think,” she said softly, her wonderfully smooth hands cupping my face between them. “Just remember what it felt like.”
What what felt like?
Kathera’s lashes came up and the blue of her eyes glimmered with fiery highlights from the nearby candle.
“You loved once before,” she added. “Now remember how that made you feel.”
I’d had a hard enough time “making up” a scenario for Kathera when I had taken her, but recalling what it had really felt like—recalling even the faintest impression of emotional love—seemed unlikely. I’d be naive to even try.
“I can’t.”
“You can,” she said firmly, resituating herself so that she was sitting with her inner thighs pressed against the outsides of mine and was close enough to press her nose to me when she lowered her face. A whirlwind of thoughts rushed through me, each one carefully tailored and embellished within Kathera’s subconscious.
A thumb migrated across my face to caress my lower lip. Her tilted face came close to mine and a cool breath teased my skin while her partly opened mouth remained a paper-thin distance away.
So close and yet we were barely touching…
“Breathe…” she whispered and followed the heated request with the pressing of a softly articulated kiss to my lips.
I did as I was told, taking in a slow breath through my nostrils as she instinctually did the same. My eyes became heavy with memories of my past and I closed them to keep the visions from escaping me.
A moment passed and our lips separated. I felt the impassioned breath seep from me like a cold puff on a winter day. She waited a moment, her fingers exploring the skin of my throat and neck, and then kissed me a second time.
“Breathe, Matthaya,” she said, repeating the request just as softly and leading me with her own actions. This time, her hands latched onto mine and slid up, massaging a trail along the delicate inside flesh of my wrists.
The pattern was familiar. It came back to me, in scattered bits and pieces, but the feeling was there, awakening from its slumber. There was freshness and virility in it, pulling me into her kiss and reminding me how it was supposed to feel—how it once had felt.
Kathera’s mind was crystal clear and contented. Each breath she convinced me to breathe made the next come faster, easier, and with less premeditation.
The smooth, supple skin of her waist lured my hands to wrap around her sides and I followed the gentle curves of her ribs up until her shirt bunched within my fingers. Her soft, fair skin felt right against my fingertips and the fine curves of her body beckoned for me to caress them as if she were mine.
Kathera worked to unbutton my shirt, slowly and meticulously, spending every moment with her eyes set fir
mly on mine.
It was as if my still heart was now racing.
Was she willing me to feel this way?
It didn’t matter… not as long as my hands moved unconsciously along her sides. She separated the front of my shirt, leaning in to kiss the base of my neck as she folded my shirt down off my shoulders. The back of my head pressed against the headboard when she inched close enough for the tiny fibers of her clothing to tickle my chest. Then, she tipped her face down to kiss me again across my lips.
Though hesitant at first, I caught the edge of her shirt within my fingers and slid it up her sides again. This time, the gentle pressure I placed at her ribs persuaded her to lift her arms gracefully above her head while I tugged the remaining fabric over her face and placed it to the side of us.
Kathera lowered her arms and rested them at my waist. It was quiet as she remained still before me. I traced the ridge of her bare shoulders with my hands and drew her in to lay a selfless kiss at the center of her breastbone. Touching her naked skin was incredible and the subtle texture was perfection.
My fingernails trailed down the middle of her chest and she smiled—not the usual smile, but a small, daintily curving, beautiful and peaceful smile.
Kathera wanted me to touch her. She wanted me to put all of my reservations aside.
Her chest rose with another deep breath and her head fell back, her eyes closed. The pale lines of her throat teased my senses, her silhouette captivating me.
Even with only the candlelight illuminating her, I saw pink flushes of color accenting her skin. I traced a path up her sides, taking in each rise and fall of flesh and bone with adoration and respect. She was soft and natural, petite, and exquisite. The fine curves of her breasts enhanced her thin frame. I tenderly explored their shape, my palms cradling the delicate weight as if my hands had been precisely suited to caress her.
She reached both arms around my shoulders and brought me as close as she could until my cheek was near her heart. Her nails combed through my hair and feeling her nakedness completely against me made a plume of passion dance through my soul.
I thought I had lost everything when I had changed, but the simple magic that was pure love at work had me mesmerized. Just being held in her arms and knowing she and I were eternally one, granted me the illusion of a quickened pulse.
I needed her, always, and she needed me.
I wanted her forever.
Kathera…
Her embrace loosened and she smiled at me again, kissing me once more before moving over to my side. There, she walked a pair of fingers across my shoulder and sighed. I took a deliberate breath myself and returned a loving grin when I exhaled.
I felt happy.
I felt… whole.
Kathera took a pillow from the other side of the bed and fluffed it between her hands in a swift clapping motion. I scooted myself down and waited for her to place it behind me. My body lowered, my head sunk into the downy pillow, and one of my arms stretched straight out to the side to invite her in.
She reacted instantly, crawling closer and resting her head on my arm. And when she pressed her chest up against my side, nestled herself into me, and rolled her fingers up across my collarbone, I was provoked to take another breath. This one, much deeper and fuller than the previous one.
At the same time, I had a revelation.
Even if I couldn’t express it the way I once had, I was still very much in love and we truly did have all the time in the world.
THE WATER PRESSED against me, pushing and pulling. I was being tugged in every direction at the same time and could do nothing to resist. Words wouldn’t form. My hands were numb, too weak to reach out to him.
It was killing me…
I leapt from my sleep with a cry of fear and my gaze darted across the shadowy walls of the room. My fingers pressed into something cold and firm—it was him. His eyes were wide from the horrible terror of my scream and his arms remained open as I had pulled myself from them in my fright. He was still with me and, God, I was thankful for it.
“Kathera?” There was a quiver in his voice.
He knew what had happened. He could feel the darkness of the hellish nightmare still radiating from my mind.
I cupped my hands around my forearms and held myself tightly. Matthaya came up behind and wrapped his arms around mine, pulling me into his embrace. I felt the tip of his nose against the back of my head as he held me close and massaged his fingers along my arms.
“I love you, Kathera,” he said again, his voice as sincere as ever, while his arms tightened their hold on me. “I’m sorry you have to go through this—that you have to face this hell… because of me. We’ll make it stop.” Anger and guilt filled him, but his love for me kept him in check. “I’ll make it stop.” The unusually husky pitch of his voice made his determination clear. It wasn’t like him to let his feelings show, though I noticed that he had loosened up quite a bit since yesterday.
“It’s not your fault,” I said with a shake of my head, my gaze settling on nothing. “It was never your fault, Matthaya.” All I could think about was the dream and how deep and real it had become. Splashes of fractured memories and visions had filled my nights before, but the vividness of this one had me trembling to the bone. It was even darker than the others and the struggle felt so real. For a moment in my sleep, I had felt as though I would die again if I did not wake soon enough. The brutality of it had rattled even Matthaya’s steel nerves.
“Kathera?” He brushed my hair to the side and over my shoulder and kissed me on the back of my neck. “Do you think…” He paused halfway through his thought.
“Yes?” I turned my face toward his. I felt so weak and drained from the nightmare that my limbs were heavy beneath me and I rested my weight against him.
“Maybe… going back to your drawings would help take your mind off things?”
It was such a simple suggestion. Drawing had always distracted me from the bad things in life. There was no telling if it would still have the same effect, but it was worth a try.
“Maybe,” I replied with a nod. “Maybe.”
I had to be inspired to draw, however, and with all the terrible pain whirling around inside, I would be asking a lot of myself.
“It’s worth trying, Kathera,” he whispered, his fingers pressing into my forearms. He kissed my shoulder. “Anything is worth trying.”
“Agh!” I shoved my palms against the table and I pushed it hard. It tipped over with a loud thud and the box of pens scattered across the floor. A few rolled one way and the rest another, a rainbow of shattered inspiration escaping my wrath in every direction.
I heard a light clacking of footsteps as he came jogging into the library.
“What happened?” Matthaya asked, his gaze chasing a few of the pens as they tumbled across the hardwood flooring. “What’s wrong?” He stepped closer to the table and bent over to lift it back up to where it had been. He wiped his sleeved forearm across the wood.
“What is it, Kathera?”
I crossed my arms in my chair.
An eyebrow rose and Matthaya’s lips curled into a partial grimace he tried to hide. He disappeared from sight for a moment as he bent down to pick the loose pens up from around the room.
I watched in silence as he patiently lifted color after color from the floor and rolled them into a level bunch in his hands, no pen sitting taller than another. He patted them even with his free hand and then retrieved the velvet box from a few feet away. He set the box down in front of me and placed the pens back inside, sliding them one-by-one into the tiny impressions along the inside of the box.
He had astounding patience.
He pulled out the chair beside me and sat down. His fingers traced the length of one of my crossed arms.
“Talk to me, Kathera,” he said, his eyes piercing mine, imploring me to answer him no matter what I was feeling. “Please, my love.” His expression softened against me as his
fingers did the same.
“I can’t do it anymore!” I said, stamping a foot down beneath the table. “I can’t…”
“You can’t do what?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know.
I felt so empty… so completely lost. It had never been so difficult and the struggle left me feeling pathetic.
“Draw…”
Matthaya’s head dropped and he appeared to be mourning my artistic loss.
“It’s exactly as I had feared it would be,” he said, breaking the silence. “In all art, there is passion,” he clarified, pressing the lid of the box closed. “And there is no passion in what we are.” He slid the box of pens across the table and tipped it onto its side, letting his fingers drift across the soft velvet for a moment.
“But I want to do this,” I said, closing my eyes to help clear my mind. “I want to get back into drawing. I want to work with others who want my art—who need me to share my visions with them.” I reached past Matthaya for the box, and as my fingers stretched to grasp it, he stopped me with a flattened hand.
“Then you’re going to need more than your own pure will to do this,” he said, his eyes met mine and I had no choice but to concede.
My eyebrows furrowed and I tipped my face in question. He was full of riddles. Would I ever understand him?
He pushed the box from my reach and then gazed warmly back at me.
“Come with me,” he said, turning over his hand and inviting me to take it. “I’ll show you.”
I smiled.
The simple act of his taking my hand—his gentle fingers cupping my own and his thumb caressing the back of my mine—put me at ease.