He’s a shadow slipping through her door at night, permitted with a timid knock and quiet “Come in.” It’s familiar now, if not expected.
His hands are never still in her presence until they’re tightly balling up her chemise or tangling in her flaming hair. That eye of his never settles on her own for but a moment before flicking away under his tightly furrowed brow. It even clenches shut, trying to shut her out altogether.
Sometimes it angers her till she drags her manicured nails down his quivering chest to leave trailing red streaks, just to see that eye recognize her. To make him realize just what he’s gotten himself into.
Other nights, she prefers it. There can be a comfort in the gaping space between her and the haunted man in her bed. The final gasp sends them both rattling with arched backs and clenched fists, and suddenly he’s again only a silhouette passing through and disappearing into the sound of soft footsteps down the hall.
She languidly traces the fraying edges of her stockings and exhales a poisonous cloud of smoke, hardly allowing herself to form something of a smirk. He’s very good at taking orders. I’ll give him that.