"She wasn't light, she was the flame—and I? I was the breath that made her burn brighter."
I. Worship in the Storm.
The storm hummed like a hymn outside, soft thunder rolling through the sky like a moan too long held in. The room was an altar of shadows and golden lamplight, and in it, he sat—bare, calm, breathing like a man who had tasted oblivion and come back hungry.
She stood before the mirror, wrapped in a robe of temptation, silk clinging to damp skin, nipples peeking through like secrets. Dorothy—lawyer, lover, a woman carved by sin and survival. Her eyes met his in the reflection, full of knowing.
"You look at me like I'm holy," she whispered, dragging her fingers down her neck slowly, deliberately, as if each inch were a confessional.
"You are," Black replied, rising. His body moved with that unhurried, lethal grace that made women weak and sinners weep. "But holiness never felt this dirty."
He untied the robe. Not like a man unwrapping a gift—but like a man about to offer worship.
II. Fire on the Altar.
Their lips met not in greeting, but in hunger. Her back pressed against the mirror, and he kissed her like she was the only drug strong enough to silence his demons. Tongue slid against tongue. Teeth clashed. Her moans were hymns, sacred and obscene.
He kissed down her neck, sucking her pulse between his teeth until her breath stuttered. His mouth trailed lower, teasing, worshiping—her nipple caught between his lips while his hand found the slick heat between her thighs.
"You're soaked," he breathed, tasting her. "You want me to ruin you, don't you?"
She grabbed his jaw. "I want you to destroy me. Slowly."
He dropped to his knees.
Tongue parting her lips, he feasted like a man starved of salvation. Every flick, every curl of his tongue made her back arch and thighs tremble. Her hands buried in his hair, she rode his face like it was the only place she'd ever known peace.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Right there—oh God—don't you fucking stop."
He didn't.
Not until she broke apart in cries that tasted of thunder and salt.
III. Flashback: Edge of the Bridge.
Two years ago. A manic midnight.
The bridge overlooked the city like a god with a bleeding heart. Mr Black had wandered there in a haze—shirtless, raving, murmuring poetry to ghosts. The wind didn't chill him. Nothing did anymore.
And then, he saw her.
Standing on the edge.
Arms wide. Hair wild. Ready to fall.
"Don't," he said. Voice ragged. Real. "If you fall, you won't fly. You'll only disappear. And I'll still be here… alone."
She turned. Her eyes were black rivers. Her mascara had melted into tragedy.
"What do you know about vanishing?" she whispered.
He stepped forward. "I do it every day. From the inside out."
She stepped down.
That night, they shared no names. Only weed, silence, and secrets. She told him about the man who stripped her dignity, and the courtroom lies she buried inside her chest. He told her nothing—but she heard his pain in the way he didn't look at her too long.
That night, she didn't die.
And he, for the first time in years, felt alive.
IV. Mirror Between Her Thighs.
Now, in the present, she climbed on top of him. Her thighs gripped his hips, her breasts brushing his chest. Her hands pinned his wrists beside his head.
"You still save me," she whispered.
"You still destroy me," he replied.
She sank down onto him, slow, maddening. Their moans overlapped like echoes in a cathedral. She rode him with intent—not fast, but deep, grinding her hips in slow circles that left him clawing the sheets.
"Fuck, Dorothy…"
"Say my name again," she begged. "Make it a curse. A promise."
He flipped her suddenly, taking control. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. He fucked her like absolution—hard, slow, deliberate. His thumb on her clit. His mouth on her neck.
"You're my sin," he growled. "My absolution. My ruin."
She came with a cry that shook the mirror. He followed, his name on her lips and his soul in her mouth.
V. The Flame and the Ash.
Later, they lay tangled in sheets that still smelled of worship.
Dorothy traced his chest, trailing circles over his heartbeat.
"What are we?" she asked.
He kissed her fingers.
"We are two broken gods," he said. "Making fire in a world that fears the burn."
She smiled, eyes heavy with sleep and satisfaction.
"Then let it burn," she whispered.
And in that room of mirrors and storm light, they did.
They burned until dawn.