Dance Inside It's like magic, the way she captivates me by her mere presence.

She stands there now, a sheer metre away from the foot of my bed, as I lay here, the upper half of my bare self sitting upright to watch her every movement. She's always been a fascination, but I've learnt it's at times like these that she executes the greatest attraction. She's beautiful and enchanting and most of all enthralling? No, that's not quite right. Oh well; I guess it can't be helped. Trying to define Rukia with such ordinary terms is and always will be a lost cause. "Don't move," she says now, her tone soft but chilling. I can hardly hear her from here, so it's a good thing I don't so much as listen to her voice as I do read her lips, because they are just so so Again, I'm lost for words. "Don't speak," she says next, though quite frankly I never planned to. Maybe I've let my mouth hang open again without my realisation and that's why she thinks I'm about to say something stupid to ruin the mood. Again, it can't be helped; she leaves me feeling appeased, stunned, and hot, all at once. I'm already unclothed, too, so it should be pretty obvious to her the kind of effect she has on me, not that I haven't told and shown her before. She walks closer now, slowly, and all I can do is stare. I look to her lipsher delectable, mouthwatering, luxurious lipsand my system automatically starts sending out impulses to lick, bite, devour them. My concentration is inevitably diverted, however, once she begins to take off her clothes. I can't stop my eyes from following her hands as she removes her skirt, shirt, bra, and panties. I'm sure she can feel my gaze on her but she doesn't show nerves, doesn't quiver, because she knows I like everything I see and she's sure enough to take control. She walks up onto the bed, appearing strangely tall and empowered over me. Her bare feet make numerous momentary creases on top of the sheets as, step by step, she comes ever closer and I'm forced to resist the urge to grab her, pull her down, and kiss, fuck, pleasure her senseless. She finally reaches me, at the head of the bed, and I can't help but think, Well, it's about time. She then treads until her feet are on either side of my waist and then she bends her legs at the knee so she can stoop down and brush her lips against mine, soft, slow and very, very sweet. My eyes have closed on instinct, rendering my sense of touch the only way for me to distinguish the feel of her hands on my chest, easing me into a flat, level position on the bed and pressing her whole self against me in what I believe is her personal form of torture. I can't complain, though; I'd take this any day over fighting Hollows and dealing with shady businessmen in striped hats. She moves back now, just a little, so that she 'accidentally' brushes against my ever-growing erection. She keeps her eye on my face, watching for my reaction, and I swear I see her hold back laughter. That bitch. My bitch, that is. She takes a less subtle approach now and grabs hold of the body of my shaft. She squeezes, then releases. Repeat, and again, until I'm throbbing hard and internally begging her to get on with it.

Externally, I'm much harder to break, though if anyone has the potential to do so, I'm sure she will be the one to eventually bring me to my knees. I see a glint in her eyes and a smirk on her lips, which is what tells me she knows just as well as I do that I'm ready for her and she's ready for me. We take our positions, a motion that's become as natural as breathing, and look into each other's eyes. It's like a dance between us, unchoreographed and unrehearsed but synchronised and stunning, nonetheless. She moves down to me, smooth and graceful, and I slip into her, slick and tender. And then there's a moan, long and heady, but I can't tell if it's hers or mine. It's always this way: a hymn of moans and incoherencies accompanying the dance of hands coupled with flesh. Each touch triggers its own response, and it never matters what it is or which one of us gives it; in the end, as long as it amounts to a satisfying performance, we're more than content, and neither of us ever feels the need to upstage the other. In these moments, we are one, after all. We're eager and alive and twisted, together. And so, I am brought back to this very instant, the here and now, as she starts to move, and so do I, and somehow we just know. We know when to start, when to speed up, slow down, pause, and when to start it all again. Don't ask me how; we just do. It's like the highlight of the piece, the climatic lift in a dance between partners, when we both reach our limit and release all that's left within our selves. It's indescribable and it's amazing; it's pure euphoria that I have never experienced before in my life, ever. Finally, when it's all over, she pecks me on the tip of my nose, like a humble bow to her adoring audience, and breathes, "I love you." And I think to myself, I am one lucky guy.