Hainsley.

Bit personal for the interweb but here goes.

I can feel it burning against my psyche. Leaking through his apparently not so impenetrable composure. Need. The intensity of it blurring my eyes and dragging all of the oxygen from my lungs. The gentle brush of his ragged breath on my skin so intoxicating I lose all sense of focus. This time, when his name escapes my lips it is not voluntary. Compulsory. Rolls off my tongue so freely that I can only assume it is instinct. Some deep rooted desperation I must have been born with to have him closer. Were that possible. The only word in my vocabulary with the capacity to convey the feeling tainting every currently heightened sensory ability I possess. The groan I can feel reverberating through his chest is so deep, so primal that it’s akin to a growl. Shredding my nerves with the contrast of this with his inherently civilised vernacular. My muscles react readily. Hungrily. Tensing. My fingers curl into claws, anomalous to me yet somehow necessary in this context. This building in my blood, a more blinding variation of a familiar emotion. I have to wonder at whatever baffling serendipity led us to this point. His lingering scent leaves me with a sense of somehow comforting eldritch.