M.

M.

She was long and lithe and slender, with a fine, delicate, sculptured face and cool, clear, intelligent eyes, saved from coldness by a long, whimsical ski-jump nose, which she resented and he adored. She held herself aloof, elegant and restrained, a casual air of natural aristocracy, undermined somehow by that subtle and ironical sense of humor that simmered in defiance just below the surface of her cool composure. And when she laughed it almost seemed to be despite herself, like it had escaped of its own accord and taken her by surprise; and she'd become a little embarrassed, as though the laugh had opened her up and in some way made her vulnerable. And somehow it did.

And it was this vulnerability that he loved so, that he wanted to protect. But it was her self-control, her self-assurance, the way she stood, so tall and proud and lovely; that placid Nordic stillness, that almost regal self-possession, for which he lusted. And like some mute and brutish peasant ravishing the Lady of the Manor in his rude, lascivious dreams, he ravished her in his.

And it was this subtle blending of these disparate passions that formed the burning core of his obsession, this insatiable hunger that always left him wanting more -- even when she had given him all that she could there was always something left, something deep inside her, something that she could not give away; and he wanted that, too. He wanted everything.