He's no more than a mist, tucked into the darkest shadow of the darkest corner of the living room, when she walks through the front door late at night. She drops her keys and purse on the coffee table, and momentarily rests one hand on the arm of the sofa while she wearily slips off first one then the other strappy high-heeled sandal. He watches as her fingertips lightly skim across her slim, muscular calf, and marvels that, insubstantial as he is, his brain can still register arousal. Still tired from her long day, she distractedly walks right past him on her way to her bedroom, and he catches the faintest whisper of the scent of her perfume. He's glad her back is turned, because for the briefest second his concentration wavers, and his eyes glimmer from the darkness. He waits a moment after he hears her bedroom door shut to compose himself, before merging himself with and passing through the bedroom wall.
She's in the bathroom, taking off her makeup when he enters the bedroom, and he takes a moment to stretch before metamorphosing once again. The moment he completes the transformation she wanders back into the bedroom, slipping off her dress as she walks. She slides the straps down her shoulders, and the sensitive brown peaks of her breasts tighten as they're exposed to the air for the first time since that morning. Mentally, he can feel his body tighten in response, and she suddenly pauses in the act of stepping out of her dress. She lazily smiles, and he knows that she knows he's there.
He'd been gone so very long this time, and she'd been agonizingly worried. Because of the danger he was always in, he couldn't keep in touch with her without risking her safety as well. She knew his work was important, even vital; but she'd missed him more than she ever thought possible. How do you miss a wraith that's as ethereal as air most of the time anyway? She feels his presence so acutely, she wonders how long he's been there, watching; and marvels that she could have missed the almost tangible essence of his presence in the building before now. She wouldn't have thought that it was still possible for him to sneak up on her like that anymore.
She stretches, raising her arms above her head and arching her back, knowing how much he loves her breasts, and wondering how long his control will last. Her body begins to heat up, and she knows that he can sense rather than feel her heat. She lazily smiles again, and gives him a perfect view of her thong-clad backside as she sensuously moves toward their bed. Her joy and relief at not having to spend another night alone in that bed is so strong that, for a moment, her breath catches and her eyes well up with tears. Catlike, she crawls into bed, and then nestles face down among the cushions and pillows.
She feels, rather than sees, him leave the comfort of his shadows. She knows that if she looks, she'll see no more than a gritty, insubstantial black shadow. She knows he believes that his wraith form is the refection of the blackness in his soul, but she also knows he's so much more than what he believes. She's touched his soul, entwined herself with it, and she knows the innate kindness, tenderness, and compassion that he keeps hidden deep within. She knows that he keeps it tucked away, hidden, to keep it protected from the dark things he has to do as part of his job, of what he is.
She closes her eyes, and feels his essence envelop her. All that he is, he covers her with, and they both breathe a deep sigh of relief and contentment as they feed their tired spirits off one another. It amazes her that she can feel so completely touched and surrounded by something that isn't even really there.
His control slips momentarily; the only substantial part of his body presses itself urgently into the curve of her buttocks. She gasps, moans, and arches her back in an attempt to get closer to him. It's almost maddening, being able to feel him, yet not feel him. She's hungry for all of him, for his arms and hands and fingertips and chest and legs. She needs to do more than just sense him; she's desperate for the weight of him pressing her down. She's ravenous for his scent and the sound of his voice. He responds, intuitively as usual, to her unspoken request. As from across a great distance, she faintly hears him say, "Be patient, not just yet. Close your eyes, and just feel."
She obeys, and gasps once again as his fingertips, just his fingertips, trace her spine. As she squirms to get more of that gossamer touch, the fingertips disappear and are replaced by the sensation of breath across the back of her neck, and lips pressing a tender kiss to that warm spot. She moans, and for the briefest of moments she feels his entire body materialize as he rolls her over. She catches a quick glimpse of the feral look in his eyes before he disappears again, and she almost weeps.
Fingertips again. Just fingertips. They electrify her skin as they trace a path from the nape of her neck to the peak of one breast. The tiny, brown, pearl-shaped nub tightens excruciatingly; and she knows he's watching her body respond to his touch. She closes her eyes as she feels the tip of his tongue stroke that nipple. She feels lips and teeth as he takes it in his mouth and strokes it with his tongue. There are hands, now; stroking the sides of her body as his lips pleasure her breast. She feels a palm squeeze her hip, and fingertips test the softness of the skin in the crease between her thigh and torso.
