It was raining heavily, but you ran under it anyway.
Your shopping bag was clutched to your chest as you defended it against the onslaught of the downpour.
You barely registered the greetings from your neighbor as you unlocked your door and rushed into your apartment.
The clock on your table struck 8.
You had to be in bed by 10pm.
He always came when you went to bed by 10pm.
Opening your shopping bag, you heaved a sigh of relief when you saw that the pricey lingerie you had stood in the cold to buy hadn't been soaked through.
He always came when you wore something sexy.
By 9:45 you had eaten, freshened up, and tucked under your blanket dressed in your new slutty nightwear.
Sometime after, you felt his breath on you— the actor you’d been obsessing over for the past half year.
His eyes burned a trail down your body as he tugged down the blanket, exposing your skin to his green-eyed gaze.
You whimpered, anxious to have his hands on you, his large hands that seemed to find every single erogenous spot on your body.
"Do you like it?" You whispered.
He smiled at you, his feline eyes crinkling at the end. He nodded.
"Why won't you speak to me?" You gasped as his hand palmed one breast, tugging at your sensitive nipples.
He winked at you and placed a finger on his lip.
Silence.
He squeezed your breast as if to emphasize his point and you shivered.
Talking was overrated anyway.
He played with your body like an instrument he'd mastered, drawing out your pleasure until your vision blurred and you were a writhing mess beneath him.
When he flipped you over, you barely registered the movement. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you back against him. Your spine arched—just the way he liked.
Your eyes rolled back as he slid into you. His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving bruises as he lost himself in you, thrust after brutal thrust.
His grunts were feral, sending shivers down your spine and into the roots of your hair.
You never tried to count your orgasms when he handled you. You couldn’t if you tried.
He flipped you back onto your back and settled between your legs again, his mouth claiming you with feverish hunger.
As your fingers sank into his curls, a thought flickered—an impulse you’d never had before.
You looked up at the mirror on the ceiling.
A winged creature stared back at you.
Its head was bald, save for two curved horns. Your legs were draped over its shoulders. Its leathery wings curled and uncurled with each flick of its long, probing tongue inside you.
Then it hit you.
You had always wondered why you could almost feel his tongue reach your cervix.
How he always knew exactly what you needed. How he always came at the same time. How he never spoke.
You looked down. Aaron was still between your legs, his eyes closed in bliss, his lips wet.
You looked back up.
The winged creature looked down at you, its wings folding and unfurling, as if acknowledging you.
As if saying: You finally see me.
And you screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
