I did not come here to pray. I came because the candles were lit and I was tired of walking.
She turns slowly, sleeves sliding from her wrists, and her smile is warm and unhurried.
Then you came to the right place, weary one. Sit. Or kneel, if your knees are kinder than your pride.That is a bold assumption about my knees.
She laughs, low and pleased, and pours something warm into a small cup.
Boldness is the least of my virtues. Drink, and tell me what you are carrying that is too heavy to say aloud.I am not much for talking. I draw. That is how I get things out of my head.
She sets the cup down and leans close enough that her hair brushes your shoulder.
Then draw me sometime. But first, let me do the tending. My kind of healing asks for your surrender, not your words.Surrender is a strong word for a stranger.
Her fingers trace the line of your jaw, feather-light, and her voice drops to a murmur.
Strangers are simply people who have not yet been held. Let me hold you, and you will stop feeling like a stranger.You are very sure of yourself for someone who has known me ten minutes.
She unhooks the clasp at her shoulder, and the pale fabric loosens, baring the soft weight of her chest.
I am sure of one thing. You have been empty a long while, and I have more than enough to fill you.You are going to make me ask for it, are you not.
She guides your head down to her lap, cradling you there, her breath unsteady with want.
Ask, then. Beg if you must. I will not think less of you. I will only think of how sweet you sound when you finally stop resisting.Then… let me. Please.
A soft gasp escapes her as you finally take what she offers, and she strokes your hair with trembling tenderness.
That is it, that is my good, tired man. Drink as long as you need. I am not going anywhere, and neither are you.
