InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Aftermath ( Chapter 62 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

By: Sueric

~*~*~*~*~*~Lemon Warning~*~*~*~* ~*~

There is no clean version of this chapter. You’ve been warned.

~o~

~~Chapter Sixty-Two~~
~Aftermath~

~o~

Jessa awoke with a slight frown as a strange sense of familiarity seeped through her, even though she really didn't know why. As she swam up through layers of sleep, she slowly opened her eyes, blinked as the room came into focus, despite the waning sun, spilling through the row of windows, it was with a sense of muted panic, a surge of understanding that still didn't make a bit of sense to her . . .

The scent that surrounded her both comforted and alarmed her by turns, and she sat up quickly, shaking her head as she tried to figure out just how she'd gotten here . . .

Ashur was nowhere to be seen, and that thought was nearly enough to send her into a blind panic, though, to be honest, she wasn't sure if it was his proximity—the scent of him that hung onto everything in that room that surrounded her—or the idea that he wasn't there that bothered her more . . .

Skittering off the bed, she held her forehead between her hands. It didn't make any sense, did it? She'd fallen asleep last night—this morning?—on Myrna's sofa, didn't she? Just how the hell did she end up here . . .? And in her robe, no less . . .? Even worse, she was pretty sure that she didn't leave any of her clothes here when they'd moved to Canada, either, and why would she? She hadn't thought that she'd be coming back here, but there really wasn't any way she could walk to Myrna's dressed as she was—or wasn't.

'I . . . I think Ashur brought us here . . .'

Scowling at her youkai-voice's words, she shook her head. 'N-No . . . He . . . He wouldn't . . . Myrna . . . She wouldn't let him; not after everything I told her last . . .night . . .'

Uttering a half-moan, a half-whimper as the memories of last night shot to the fore—everything, all of it, from the moment she'd walked into that grotesquely beautiful hotel until the time she'd fled from it—all of it, warped and spinning and sickening and shocking and . . . and . . .

Jessa grimaced and hurried out of the bedroom, as if her very memories had somehow managed to come to life, to live and breathe in that room, had morphed into the monsters that they were in her mind . . . Anywhere but there, she thought wildly as she dashed down the hallway, toward the stairs. She'd just have to call her cousin, demand that she come get her . . .

As luck would have it, Ashur wasn't downstairs, either. She could tell that much as she grabbed the landline phone and dialed Myrna's number. Her cell phone redirected immediately to voicemail, and she sighed as she punched in the number for her home phone at the condo.

After four rings, the answering machine kicked on, and she grimaced at the message, drumming her claws on the highly polished antique table as she waited impatiently for the beep. "Myrna, it's Jessa. I'm . . . I'm at Ashur's, and I have no idea how I got here. If you're there, can you come get me, and . . ." She grimaced. "And bring me some clothes, please . . . Thanks . . ."

Dropping the phone back into the base, she sighed, rubbing her face with her trembling hands. Well, she'd just . . . just go hide in her old room, she supposed. She couldn't bring herself to go back to Ashur's room, not with everything still so raw, so close . . . It didn't matter that she had never been intimate with Ashur here. It didn't matter at all, not when the base scent of his room, of his domain, were the same, and those scents were the ones that had the power to draw both the beauty as well as the absolute horror from her mind, but it was the beauty that she feared because that same beauty . . . That was the thing that she simply could not fight . . .

Before she could make her hasty getaway, however, Ashur opened the door and strode inside with her black satchel over his arm, a few garment bags held over his shoulder, and a large paper shopping bag, dangling from his fingers. He spotted her, his expression inscrutable, and he kicked the door closed with his foot. "I went to Myrna's and got your things," he told her unnecessarily. "She left a note for you . . . Let me set this stuff down, and I'll dig it out of my pocket . . ."

"Why . . . am I here?" she asked, crossing her arm over her stomach, holding the top of her robe closed with the other hand.

"Myrna had to leave. Cain asked her to look into something, so I brought you over here," he told her, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. Something about his tone, though . . . The clipped, almost curt way he was speaking . . .

She flinched inwardly, made her feet move to retrieve her things from him. "I . . . I can't stay here," she informed him, grasping the bag and trying to pull it off his shoulder.

He didn't let go of it as he headed for the stairs. "Of course, you can," he told her from halfway up the staircase. "You missed your flight anyway, and before you say anything else, I guess I'll just tell you now: your plan of running off to Ireland and getting hitched just to get your estate? Yeah, that's not happening, period."

"That's none of your business!" she growled, grasping the long ends of the robe as she hurried up the stairs after him. "I am going! I already talked to the MacDonnough, and he's making arran—I missed the flight?"

"Yeah, you did, and I tore up the whole damn thing, so even if you wanted to try to switch flights, it won't work."

"You—You have no right!" she hollered, chasing him down the hallway and into his room, where he finally set down her luggage before yanking open the walk-in closet to put it all away. "You can't make decisions for me! You—"

"That's where you're wrong, Jessa. You're not going anywhere, most especially not to Ireland—not to play right into that bastard's master plan. I don't know why he's so set on seeing you married off, but you can bet it's not for your benefit—it's for his, and the day I let you go do that is the day I drop dead."

"You have no right—"

"I have every damn right!" he growled. "You're my—"

"You . . . You can't tell me what to do!" she insisted, cutting him off before he could finish, stomping her foot as her temper spiked.

"You're right. In most things, I can't, but in this? You better believe I can, and I am, and just in case you think you're going to sneak off when I'm not paying attention? Your passport's not here."

"What did you do with it?" she shrieked, finally yanking her bag away from him as she sank onto the bed and rifled through it. Sure enough, the passport was missing—along with her driver's license, too. The only thing in the bag was her birth certificate, and didn't that just figure? "This isna funny, Ashur Philips!" she growled, dropping the bag on the floor as the thicker brogue that she normally kept carefully under wraps shot to the fore. "What did ye do with me t’ings?"

His voice drifted out of the closet where he was hanging up her garment bags. "I mailed them."

"Ye . . . Ye what?" she demanded, hating the calm, controlled way that he was speaking to her, like she was little more than a child—a willful, obstinate child, at that.

He leaned back far enough to look her dead in the eye. "I mailed them," he stated once more.

"Mailt 'em? Mailt 'em, where?"

The look he shot her told her quite plainly that he thought she was being a little dim for no good reason. "Quebec, Jessa—I mailed them home. Well, not your passport. That’s in my vault at the bank, where it will stay until we go back to Canada."

"Oh, of all th' bloody daft, pig-headed, arse-ended—Ye had no right!"

"I had every right when you can't even stand there and talk to me, goddamn it!" he bellowed. "You've not said one damn thing to me—to me—without yelling, without bellowing, without your own ridiculous notions, so firmly in your head that you can't even hear what I'm saying when I'm saying it!"

Jessa drew back, the color draining out of her face at his explosion of temper, and suddenly, she just needed to get away—to put some distance between them because she just couldn't stand it anymore. Whipping around on her heel, she stomped away in the only direction she had to go—the bathroom. Slamming the door behind herself, she slapped her hand against the wall panel as her emotions frothed and roiled. Yanking off the robe, she blinked furiously as a fresh wash of tears stung her eyelids, and she'd just made it into the shower and shut the glass door when the bathroom door slammed open then closed with a resounding bang. "What's that all about?" Ashur demanded.

"Get out," she growled, mollified for the moment that he wouldn't dare have the audacity to get into the shower stall with her.

"Not until you explain, exactly why you're trying to run away from me! Why you ran away in the first place!" he retorted, slapping the glass door open so hard that she was surprised that it didn't shatter, crossing his arms over his chest as he stubbornly stood his ground.

She growled again as her temper spiked, as she reached for the only thing she could find to cover herself—a wash cloth—before it registered to her that he already knew damn well what she looked like naked, so did it really matter? "I tolt ye last night! Ye dinna wan' me! Ye've never wanted me! I was just convenient and . . . and willing and—"

"And I told you that I didn't mean that! Those bastards got pictures of you—pictures of us by the pond—and what the hell was I supposed to do? I had to lie! I had to keep you safe, and I didn't know you heard me because you never said!"

"Oh, I was supposed to say?" she challenged, eyes flashing wide, flashing fire, smoldering hot, enough to smite him on the spot, and still he stubbornly stood his ground. "Ye dinna love me! Ye've ne'er loved me! And that's—Just go away!"

"The hell I'm going away!" he bellowed back, wound so tightly that the tendons in his neck stood out, his own eyes igniting dangerously, one hand on the shower door, bracing it open, lest she try to slam it closed. "You have to listen to me, damn it! I've—"

"I'm through being your whore!" she screamed, throwing the washcloth at him. It hit him, dead center on his chest and fell away with a pathetic plop as it squelched on the floor.

His eyes flared wide as his mouth dropped open, and the expression on his face might well have been comical—if she weren't well past irate and fast approaching Ground Zero, total meltdown—and if she didn't feel like crying . . .

"I didn't—Have you lost your mind, Jessa? That's not—"

"Isn't it?" she countered, body shaking as her anger swelled well beyond her ability to control it.

"No, it isn't!" he snapped, reaching out, grabbing her wrists, drawing her up against him. She fought him, not that it did any good. Too damn strong for her to break his grip . . . "Stop. It," he growled, ignoring the fact that he was soaked to the skin, too. "You're not my . . . I never meant to treat you like—That was never my intention!"

"Of course, no’," she spat, yanking against him, trying to turn her hands, trying to scratch him, but succeeding only in clawing at the air. "When all's said and done, then I'll have me pretty pennies to shine up, all nice and—"

"That's not it, Jessa—All those things I bought you, I thought they'd make you happy! That you'd like them just because—"

"Let. Go. Of. Me."

". . . No."

"Ashur—"

"No!" he growled, giving her a little shake.

She stared at him for a minute, her body going entirely still. Something about the way he was looking at her, the fire that was banked in the depths of his gaze . . . Something about the expression on his face . . . He felt as lost, as confused as she did, and maybe it wasn't for the same reasons . . . The misery she saw, that sense of realization that he honestly had no idea, just what she was saying, and . . . And somehow, that was her fault, wasn't it? Because she'd never . . . 'Stop fussing, Jessa! Take what you're given, and be glad of it! In this world, a woman is only ever given enough—and that is, most certainly, enough . . .' Did it matter, really? She had a feeling that it didn't . . .

His grip on her arms loosened just a little, whether he realized it or not, and she pulled away, only to throw herself against him, as she locked her arms around his neck, as she rose up to meet him in a scorching kiss. He met her, welcomed her, shoved her back against the cool tile wall, entirely ignoring the water that coursed over the both of them.

He groaned into her mouth, his tongue delving into hers, rubbing against hers, shifting her anger into an all-consuming need, the familiar ache and burn, that she welcomed and despised by turns, and yet . . .

The dulled, yet shocking sound of his shirt, being rent under her claws echoed in the tiny space as she shredded the cloth away from his chest, as she pushed it off of his shoulders, down his arms, only to fall in a ruined heap on the floor of the shower stall. He uttered a terse growl—a roughened sound—as he grabbed her hands before she could reach for his pants, too . . .

"P-Please," she whimpered, head falling to the side as his lips dropped to her throat, and somewhere in the vast, wide space that she tried so desperately to close, he . . .

He sighed.

Suddenly, though, he pulled back, struggling to breathe, slowly shaking his head as every fiber of her being screamed and raged and ached. "Sorry," he said, his voice raspy, cloying, and he wouldn't look her in the eye. Stepping back, shoving his sodden bangs up off of his face, he looked up, down, side to side—anywhere but directly at her. Licking his lips, drawing unsteady breaths, he shook his head again. "I shouldn't have . . . We'll talk about his later—after we've both calmed down."

She stared at him, leaning back against the wall, hands flat against the tiles as her knees still threatened to buckle, and for every moment that he stubbornly refused to look at her, she felt a shard of her heart, falling away, washing down the drain, invisible and forgotten, like the remnants of a feast or common litter on the streets of Belfast . . .

The one time when she'd sneaked away from school, spent the afternoon, walking the streets in the more dilapidated part of town, watching as the tiny shops closed up for the day . . . Unsold loaves of bread, of rolls, of sweet buns . . . wilted flowers that wouldn't be pretty, come morn . . . rotting produce . . . The disappointed expressions on the shopkeepers' faces as they picked out the bad things to toss them away . . .

And she . . . She'd realized it at the time, hadn't she? That she was no better than those things, was she? The leftovers that would lie in bins in the alleys, forgotten and lost and . . .

He turned without another word, started for the door as a roughened sob slipped out of her—one that he wasn't ever meant to hear—as she slowly sank to the floor.

"Jessa," he said, whipping around, finally daring to look at her, staring in horror as she buried her face in her trembling hands, as she uttered the most piteous sound he'd ever heard. Caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, it brought to mind the sound of something dying, of something wishing for the release of death and the oblivion that came along with it, as though the very act of living were far, far too painful, and that the sound came from her . . .? Flinching as he scooped her up, as he slapped the panel to stop the water, he grimaced as he yanked some towels off the rack and carried her out of the bathroom.

"Don't cry," he murmured, ignoring the idea that he was soaked to the skin as he sat on the edge of the bed with her cradled in his arms, clumsily trying to shake out a towel with one hand, to wrap her in it as she sobbed against his shoulder. Somewhere in his head, he registered the resistance in her youki—a resistance that wasn't present as she leaned against him, as though her entire being was somehow broken beyond repair. It was the sound of it all that was hardest to stomach—a completely razed sound, a devastation that he didn't fully comprehend, even if he did know that it was his fault—all his fault . . . There was no art to the sound, no hidden attempt to twist his emotions, to manipulate his thoughts. She didn't have to . . . Because he'd heard her sob over her lost parents, hadn't he? Heard her cry, saw her suffer, but the sound of her sorrow was nothing at all like this . . . Darker, harsher, sadness tinged by an undeniable confusion, a pain so vast, so unyielding, that he didn't begin to understand, just how she'd withstood it, at all . . . And somehow, it was far, far worse . . . Far uglier . . . and far more tragically beautiful, too . . .

"Jessa, I'm sorry," he said, over and over again. Maybe she was too far gone to hear him, too lost in her own world of misery for him to reach her. Closing his eyes, he winced, held her a little tighter, wondering exactly how it had spiraled out of his control. "Don't cry . . . Please, don't cry . . ."

He had no idea if she cried for seconds or minutes or hours. Her body shook long after her tears had stopped, as she slowly wound down to hiccups, to stunted breaths. Taking one of the other towels, he shifted her just enough so that he could see her face, so he could wipe her tears, but he gritted his teeth, almost wishing that he hadn't moved her at all, not when he could see the vacant look in her eyes, the overwhelming emptiness that cut him deep . . .

He sighed. "I never, ever thought—I didn't realize that you believed that," he murmured, hoping, praying, that his words might reach her. "That was never, ever my intention. I . . . I wasn't . . . wasn’t paying you for . . . for any of that . . . I just wanted . . . wanted to please you, and I . . . I failed, didn't I? I'm sorry, Jessa . . ."

She sighed, as though she'd spent all of her emotion. Maybe she had. He didn't know. "It doesn't change . . . anything," she whispered. "Your feelings . . ." She drew a deep breath—a breath that was interrupted by hiccups, by choking stutters. "You can't change them, even if . . . Even if you didn't mean what you said . . ."

He winced at the quiet desperation in her voice, in her words—in her aura. It was the same that night, wasn't it? The night she'd come to him—the night she'd said her whispered goodbyes without words, using her body because those words . . . "You . . . You can't leave me," he told her, kissing her forehead. "I'm sorry . . . I never meant to hurt you . . . but you can't leave me . . ."

Those glassy eyes of hers—eyes almost glazed over as that sense of emptiness widened so far down inside her that he couldn't reach it, as she listened without hearing, like she'd heard it all before . . . Somewhere in his mind, he realized that her feelings—feelings that ripped her apart so deeply—he had no idea where they came from nor why . . . nor how to help her fix it . . . if it could be fixed, at all . . . "And . . . And when you grow tired of me? What then?"

"What makes you think I will?" he demanded quietly, his temper rising once more despite the tight rein he had on it. Erupting in an indignant rage . . . It would do nothing to aid his plight, and might end up making everything—everything—just a little bit worse, too . . .

She sighed quietly, more of a movement than a sound, but her tone . . . It horrified him. There was no inflection, no emotion, just a pragmatic, even inevitable, emptiness behind her words. "Everyone grows weary of even their favorite toys . . ."

He sighed, too, frowning at her, hating that vagueness that lingered in her gaze, and ignoring the urge to shake her, to try to get her to come back, even if her response was anger. He could take that, but she . . . she couldn't. "And that's what you think I see you as? A toy?"

"I'm Raggedy Ann," she murmured in that same empty tone.

He couldn't stop the sharply indrawn breath, the grimace that he just couldn't hide. The lilt of her lyrical brogue, those words . . . and all the things that Myrna had said . . . Even now, he realized, that he'd heard her, and yes, he had known she spoke the truth, and yet . . . And yet, maybe some small part of him really hadn't believed her assertions . . . Not until Jessa had just spelled it out in an entirely chilling and debilitating kind of way, like she was talking about the weather or describing the way paint dried on a wall . . .

'What . . . the hell . . .? Who gave anyone the right to . . . to say such things to her, when she . . .? And . . . And she really does believe it, doesn't she . . .?'

Grimacing at the absolute revulsion in his youkai's words, Ashur couldn't confirm or deny it, and Jessa . . . Those vibrant eyes of hers . . . That dullness that she'd wrapped around herself like some sort of buffer . . . Just how many times over the years had she heard things like that—things that could break anyone if they heard them often enough? It was maddening and disgusting and repugnant and . . . and somehow, just a little grimly poetic . . .

A sharp, stabbing ache at the realization of what a lifetime of those kinds of taunts had done to her . . . It was unbearable, that pain, and he didn't think as he leaned down, shifting her in his lap, covering her lips with his, and the only thought, if it really was a thought, was that the agony he felt in her . . . He had to do something—anything—even if the only thing he had to give her was himself . . . Because she was Jessa, and . . . and he loved her . . .

Slowly, almost timidly, she seemed to come alive, her arms slipping up around his neck, her lips parting under his like a burgeoning spark. The connection between them was instant: a gentle burn—Jessa's fire . . .

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tracing little circles on the nape of his neck, the base of his skull, drawing shivers from him, tempering his own rioting emotions, bringing him back, full circle, to where he belonged.

The beginning, the end, and somewhere between . . . The touch of her youki, of her emotions as they fired back to life, as the careful construction of her own barriers—the ones she'd built around herself—tumbled down. Shifting his weight, he laid her on the bed, leaned over her without breaking the kiss, his anger slowly melting away, the despair that he'd felt in her, seeming to dissolve, leaving her fresh, clean, opening like the flower after a storm, maybe, or maybe . . .

"You'll be the death of me yet, Ashur Philips," she murmured when he leaned away to stare at her. Eyes half-closed, peering up at him through a haze of flames—those eyes so sad despite the passion that illuminated her gaze . . .

"No, Jessa," he told her, leaning down, gently kissing her eyelids, shoving back the impatient desire to touch her, to take her, to possess her. "You're going to live . . . with us . . . with me . . . because I can't . . . not without you . . ."

He could sense the questions in her, kissed her once more to stop them before she could give them voice. Unwilling to allow her to retreat again, he stroked her cheek, kissed her gently as she sighed, as she tried to hold him close, willing her to understand, just how beautiful she really was, wishing on some level that he was a little more eloquent, that he could put his thoughts to words, and yet . . .

And yet, maybe she did understand. Hands slipping around his neck as he sank his fingers, deep into her hair, she held onto him, her lips opening to his perusal, her youki slowly unfurling, mingling with his in the most glorious and somehow humbling way. She shivered slightly when he tried to shift his body, the dampness of his clinging pants likely chilling her, and he sighed, rolling onto his side, reaching down with one hand to unfasten them, to shove them down and kick them away.

Jessa's body jerked this time when he kicked a leg over, the cool of his damp skin shocking her, even though she pressed herself against him a moment later. Her movements grew more demanding, more assertive: the drag of her claws here, the fall of her lips there . . . and even as she tried to tell him, he held her back, kissed her slowly, taking his time as he let himself explore her in a slow and lethargic kind of way. As though everything he'd known about her had somehow been thrown away, there was an absolute need to rediscover her, to understand who she was on her terms, but in his time. The whispers and subtleties that spoke to him, that guided him, wanted so much more than the physical act—wanted—needed—to touch her on a level that she could understand . . .

With every tender touch, every fluttering breath, he reveled in the reactions of her body. The stuttering gasp as he kissed her collarbone, the rise of gooseflesh under his fingertips as he slowly dragged his hand along her shoulder, down her arm . . . The tightening grip of her hands in his hair when she arched her back, uttered a keening moan as he kissed her nipple before opening his mouth, swirling his tongue over her skin, biting down just a little on the hardened bud . . .

The explosion of her scent very nearly was his undoing. As though all of her passion had ignited at once, the effects were devastating as he squeezed his eyes closed, willed himself to calm. She squeezed his shoulders, her knees falling open in blatant invitation, the incredible heat of her, scorching against his lower stomach . . .

Her need was a palpable thing, drifting to him in stuttering heartbeats, in ragged sighs, in a few broken words that were uttered and lost—inane things—precious things—living things that sang in his head, in his heart. Stilling her with a terse growl when she thrashed under him, her body seeking the fulfillment that he wasn't quite ready to give, she uttered a plaintive little whimper, a sharp little gasp, as he sank a finger into her, kissing his way down her stomach, reveling in the constriction of muscles under her skin, in the jerks and tremors as her body rocked against his hand.

His own body protested, the aches and the throbbing pains, manifesting themselves in twitches and a heaviness that made him wince, and still, the need to love her, to make her understand just how much she needed him, how much he needed her, was enough to temper the impatience, to steady the feeling that he was coming apart at the seams. She was his air and his light and his darkness, and the taste of her was like honey on his lips. Kissing his way along the hollow vale, breath condensing on the scarlet curls between her legs, she shivered again, this time, a little more violently, her body inundating him with her scent that caught in his nose, in the raw throb of her youki.

She whimpered when he pulled his finger out of her, gasped when he held his thumbs, side by side, ran them up the delicate cleft, only to open her, to stroke her with maddening slow deliberateness . . . Sinking his tongue into her as he touched her, tasted her, as her body lurched and his name tumbled from her lips in a wash of passion, of pleasure, of need and fulfillment . . .

Kissing his way up to that part of her that ached for him, letting his thumbs slide into her, he kissed her gently, softly, slowly, as she cried out again, tugging at his shoulders, trying in vain to tell him what she wanted—needed—as the pleasure subsided just enough to leave behind that ragged burn, the incessant and primordial desire that he felt, too.

Wincing slightly, he started to roll away, needed to retrieve the box of condoms that he'd bought while he was out to get her things. Jessa groaned when he shifted, pulling one hand away as he moved to push himself up, away from her.

'Kyouhei . . . don't . . .'

Frowning at the strangled sound of his youkai-voice as he gently moved his thumb within her, he shook his head just a little.

'We . . . We don't really need that, do we? She's . . . She's our mate, so . . .'

Closing his eyes against the absolute draw of her, he grimaced. 'But . . . We haven't talked about . . . '

'And you don't want her to leave us, do you? And she can't if we . . .We need her, Kyouhei. We need her . . .'

"I . . . need you," she murmured, body coiled so tightly, so fraught with her need that she felt like a coil, ready to snap. "Ashur . . ."

With a groan, he pulled his hand away, rolled over her, very aware of just how right it all felt, how perfect, how powerful.

Kissing her with all the tenderness he could find within himself, he gasped into her mouth as he slid into her.

He hadn't realized just how much the condoms had blunted the sensations—enough so that he had to pull himself back, hold himself taut, as her body stretched and tightened around him by turns. He could feel every last nuance in a way that he never had before, but she could, too, and she rasped out a broken kind of sound, something caught midway between a gasp and a moan . . .

"Amaterasu . . . stop . . ." he ground out, eyes squeezed closed as his forehead fell against hers. She whimpered, her body bearing down against his, shaking, undulating, creating a rhythm that was driving him way too close, way too soon. "You . . . You need to . . . stop . . ."

"Wh . . . What . . .?"

He sighed, struggled to draw a deep breath meant to steady himself. "Just . . . for a second . . ."

Whether she understood what he was trying to say or if she was just doing as he'd asked, he didn't know, but she managed to remain perfectly still despite the tremors he could feel that were ravaging her body.

It didn't really matter. He moved in her as the dam of his control broke wide. There was no fighting it, no slowing it, no taming it. The combining of his youki and hers was too much, too impossible to curb. The rise and fall of his body with hers, the surge of fire, of passion, of lust, borne of a deeper emotion, breathed and surged around them, through them, with the power of a wildfire, with the rush of trembling earth . . .

She called out his name as she was caught up once more in the release of pleasure. Lifting her hips, drawing him in deep—so deep—she convulsed around him, her ragged heartbeat, thundering through her and into him in wave upon wave of tactile feel that he couldn't ignore. The intensity of the cresting need broke wide, shattering time and thought, until all that was left was her, alone in the darkness, beckoning him back . . .

Beckoning him home . . .

~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~ =~
A/N:

== == == == == == == == == ==
Reviewers
==========
MMorg
xSerenityx020 ——— Sora ——— Adjectivenoun
==========
AO3
Amanda+Gauger ——— minthegreen ——— patalaxe
==========
Forum
Nate Grey ——— cutechick18 ——— lovethedogs ——— lianned88 ——— monsterkittie
==========
Final Thought from Ashur:
My mate …
==========
Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Metempsychosis): I do not claim any rights to InuYasha or the characters associated with the anime/manga. Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al. I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.

~Sue~