deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Prince and the Nagini {pt V}

She could not lift her gaze to meet his eyes just yet. She was not brave enough to have that battle. Her long, black hair was her veil between herself and these feelings bubbling as a volcano about to burst.

He knew he ought to leave at this point. He knew he was supposed to allow this small creature some space to assess what had transpired. He could not. He had to stay with her now, he needed to know her response to his revelation that she was in a land of barbarism. That her only protection was him and that she could leave, have safe passage, but to where? For now, at least, she must stay close to him, and, for her, that was no difficult thing.

He was dark and brooding, eyes like brown pools of sorrow. In another realm, he would be an Arabian prince or Sultan's son, perhaps even a genie or Allah's son incarnate. Although she did not lift her gaze she took in every detail; his sleek, black hair, his soft, brown eyes, his delicate scent of coconut oil and underarm smells of bathing oils and sweat, a soothing blend of natural aromas.

The pause in the air was a heady mix of uncomfortable anticipation and hopeful welcoming. He felt the dense attraction in the space as equally and he noted her naked vulnerability. Why does this woman refuse to wear clothes?

She wasn't sure if this unease was him telling her to pack up and leave. She had to pause and assess his next move. She could feel his dark warmth, like a blanket of raven's feathers. She could feel him, without looking. She could feel his sorrow, his predicament, and his yearning, she had a perceptiveness that bordered on psychic. She was feeling his chaotic void of circumspect deliberation.

"Would you like to come, as my guest of honour, to tonight's ball?"

A move she was definitely not expecting.
subrosa
Written by subrosa
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