Longing for love; dying in a loveless marriage, Cheyenne leaps, but was it from the frying pan into the fire? Her dark knight has baggage of his own and it threatens to destroy them both.
Is their love strong enough to concur it all?
Exploration, exploitation, passion, lust, and lies
While Cyan knew she wasn't fully awake, in the back of her mind, she could hear the wind whipping the willow tree, the branches clawing at the house like an angry evil.
She focused on the green ominous glow of the alarm clock. "It's two A.M.," she groaned. Cyan's fitful sleep was disturbed by his dark presence for weeks now the vision of him returned nightly. In the dream she could feel him near her bed. Every time she had the dream it became more explicit. She could see the dark figure staring at her, motioning for her to come to him. She wanted to but something was holding her back. Something deep inside her warned her, this black knight was not there to rescue her. The warning sign flashed, "Danger, danger." She should run, she should not be hypnotized by his black eyes, but she couldn't help herself. Powerless to resist she stared mesmerized, feeling the pull of his lust.
The scenery was draped in the same surreal landscape dream that green eyes materialized from. The same marshy landscape in which Audrey Rose–Cyan shook her head to dispel the water filled image of Audrey. Cyan had realized early on that what she thought were dreams were actually visions, premonitions of what was to be. At first she thought she caused things to happen by dwelling on the vision. Things she saw, things she hoped for, but that was when she was younger, so much younger as if in another lifetime. The one vision that still haunted her was when she saw Audrey Rose, that haughty and angry, upper-class-everything-perfect, flaming redhead drown. In the back of her mind she always thought it was her fault, that somehow she had caused it to be, Halloween horror-like spookiness. She had thought perhaps random bits of imagery left over from the day, interjected with her own anger had caused the dreams and then had given her the supernatural power to fulfill their dire consequences. Before she understood the nature of the dreams, she had been wracked by guilt and worry that she had caused the drowning by dreaming the event as many times in the weeks before Audrey died. Audrey always seemed to get her way. If she wanted someone's boyfriend, she took him. If she tired of someone she dumped him. When she dumped Roger, everyone knew she used him–everyone but Jordan that is. He thought he was big man on campus with Audrey on his arm. His money bought her everything she wanted, even that huge diamond ring just a week before Audrey dumped him.
The news that he committed suicide hit the school like a bomb; Cyan remembered hearing the announcement when the principal called the assembly. No one had heard about it before hand, no rumor that normally happens in a small town… All eyes focused on Audrey and her crowd.
Audrey just laughed and acted like there was nothing funnier in the world, as she flashed her diamond ring for everyone to see. He wasn't the only one Audrey had messed with; she had caused Cyan enough trouble.
Cyan brushed those thoughts away like they were gnats she wasn't going to deal with anymore. She didn't kill Audrey, though she wished her dead many times. It was the other way around, with the dreams or premonitions she knew now. She only saw what was coming and she knew somewhere, her black knight was approaching. Brief flashes of clairvoyance had followed Audrey's death, but it would be years before Cyan experienced anything as strong as the repeated visions of Audrey, her red hair floating on the water around her like a halo.
Green Eyes came to Cyan while she was sleeping. Cloaked in his army fatigues, Jerome had appeared a savior to her, an escape from the purified, germ-free, emotionless mausoleum of her mother's house. Once Jerome had claimed Cyan's heart, he squeezed the life from it, twisted it until it broke. Now her heart, like their marriage, lay in a spent heap tossed away like so much garbage. At first, she had tried to rescue it from the bottom of the whiskey bottle. A losing battle, she now knew. Green, once fresh, once signifying freedom was also the color of mold, decay, and putrid death. And black–black was sweet allure, the color of her lust as she lay in the darkness barely beyond the dream.
Cyan pulled away from the dream in a feverish sweat. Moisture wrapped around her, the sheets clinging to her arms, legs, and chest. With trembling hands, she tossed the sheets and blankets away from her. The sheet beneath her was drenched from her fitful wrestling with the dark shape in her nightmare. Cold air washed over her cooling her skin, bringing her nipples to rigid peaks. Only her center was still warm, deliciously warm. The place between her legs that her mother said she must not touch was damp and begging for release. The desire to press it consumed her.
Her mother's voice yelling at her brother for his wet dreams, soiling the sheets, echoed through the night air, "You will go blind if you keep playing with that thing," she said angrily. "Good girls don't touch their sex organs, they save themselves for marriage and that is what the husband should do, never you." Cyan heard her mother's voice as it raged against her older sister, who apparently questioned the feeling she found. Her mother's voice reverberated through her memory and she snatched her hands to her chest, groaning in misery at the contact with her distended breasts.
Fire and brimstone. So many, many years of anguished want burned between her thighs.
Pastor York had reinforced all of her mother's tirades, back when she was so impressionable. Now she wasn't so sure they were right since she had started to see the world through her own filter.
Quickly, Cyan moved from the bed, her steps rapid as she crossed to the bathroom where she splashed cold water on her wrists and her face. The combination of cool air in the house, the cold water, and the after thoughts of the Dark Knight in her dreams, raised flesh bumps to race across her bare skin. She shivered and returned to the bed. Only then did she first realize that once again Jerome was passed out somewhere else in the house. He had not come to bed again. Nothing new. She sighed and slipped between the sheets. It was normal for him. At times she missed him, but she learned to live around him. Mother always said, "You made your bed, now sleep in it." Old school, old world, no way around it Cyan accepted what she was taught as law and she internalized it.
Afraid to sleep and yet longing to get into the dream that would perhaps bring the dark figure in to make love to her. Cyan embraced the dream, purposely hovering between sleep and a trancelike state. She wanted to feel his hot breath on her neck as he slowly kissed his way to her breasts. The hot penetrating touch of his fingers toying with her nipples as he sucked her full lower lip was real. His tongue, serpentine, thick and twisting, darted into her mouth, sucked her tongue out as his cock pressed against her mound. She could smell the intoxicating maleness of his heat rising as his passion did. He broke the kiss and began a slow trail of licks down the centerline of her body, circled her navel, penetrating it, fucked it with his tongue. She could feel inside where the umbilical cord once fed her life now fed, now--fanned the spark creating a bonfire below her navel, inside the secret place of her womanhood. Cyan hovered on the edge of climax. His hands playing lightly over her hips, urging her on as she pumped the air between them, her body in flames from his touch. He spread his hands caressing, squeezing, manipulating, and kneading her tender cheeks. She pumped the air once, twice more, then shattered against the bed. An orgasm claimed her body. She writhed beneath his touch. Still he teased her, his hand found her swollen clit, rubbing it until she parted her legs, squirming in her need, begging for him to enter her, anxiously awaiting the feel of him diving into her deepest depths. Her hands cupped her breasts in an ancient offering. His black eyes raping her but the dream disappeared, leaving her hot, wet, and barely satisfied. He flashed her a brilliant smile, a half-cockeyed smile that only made her wetter. She groaned and opened her eyes. And then he was gone.
Light peaked between the tiny cracks of the venation blinds and she was alone. The night sucked back away from her and she couldn't keep the feeling between her thighs from draining away with it. There will be other nights. Will he be there, that Dark Knight of her passions, her restless dreams? Will he be there to fire her loins and stir her passions? She couldn't linger in his afterglow, his smell. He wasn't authentic. He was a fantasy. He seemed so very, very near. Cyan let a tear slip down her cheek, and trickle to her pillow, her empty womb awoke and ached, ashamed and guilty for allowing those dark eyes to invade her dreams.
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