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It makes no sense to him. It never has. There is something in the way she moves, the way she thinks, the way she revels in the violence and the bloodshed. He's never known anyone like her before and he sincerely doubts he will ever meet anyone like her again.
She is not delicate, far from it, and she proves that every time she shoves him down onto the nearest available surface whether that is a bed, a table, a sofa, his desk, or a stone garden bench. Regardless of where or when, his breath is stolen every single time she mounts him like a wild steed in need of subduing.
He thrusts with abandon at her breathless urging, gripping her soft, ample hips so hard his fingers ache. Lucius is always mesmerized by the way her breasts bounce, the undulation of her hips making them sway and dance before his eyes. He reaches up, palming one, squeezing hard until she cries out and bats his hand away in playful irritation. The stinging rake of her nails are a harsh reminder of her skewed notion of play.
A chill races down his spine as the cool air of the room meets the exposed flesh of his sweat soaked back. He surges up, lips wrapping around a dusky nipple, teeth gnashing the sensitive bud just so he can hear the wanton scream that belongs only to him.
Her fingers claw the back of his neck, guiding his lips and teeth on to less sensitive areas when his enthusiasm becomes too painful even for her. He can feel the telltale flutter as she tightens around his aching cock. His hips roll. It's a counter rhythm to the way she grinds down onto him, almost violent, almost like they are fighting rather than fucking.
Lucius wants desperately to come, to fill his rubenesque queen of murder and bask bonelessly in the afterglow until he is ready for a second round. It is only then that she allows him to control the pace. It is only when she is drunk on the high of her many prior orgasms that she lets him crawl on top and worship at her altar of flushed and feverish flesh.
He will worship long into the night until he is too exhausted to move. And when her touch turns painful and he reluctantly twitches back to life, he will lie sprawled beneath her with limbs askew as she rides him to a final sputtering climax.
She will slip out sometime during the night leaving him passed out and covered in the evidence of their tryst. And upon waking, Lucius will count the days until they can do it all over again and again.
He doesn't love her. It's never been about love for either of them. He is obsessed. He always has been. Bellatrix is equally drawn and now they are locked in this spiral, drawn to each other's flame.
One day it will come to a head. It has to. For now, he is powerless to stop that from happening.