Chapter 35: The Scent of Obsession

The days since Maëlys's admission – her reluctant surrender to Eliott's unwavering claim – had blurred into an intoxicating, disorienting haze. The loft had become their entire world, a gilded cage forged from reclaimed memories and insatiable desire. Eliott was relentless in his pursuit, not just of her body, but of her fractured mind. He was meticulously, almost reverently, reconstructing their past, weaving every fragment into a narrative so compelling, so visceral, that Maëlys found it increasingly impossible to discern where her current self ended and her forgotten self began.

He would wake her with touches that were both tender and possessive, hands tracing the curves of her body, igniting a familiar ache of longing even before her eyes fully opened. His mornings often began with whispered stories, fragmented confessions of their clandestine moments, of the risks they'd taken, the boundaries they'd crossed. He spoke of the intoxicating thrill of their forbidden love, of how Liam's jealousy had only sharpened their desire, pushing them to defy caution.

"Remember the old, abandoned church?" he'd murmur, his lips brushing her ear, his hand sliding over her hip. "The one on the edge of town, where the stained-glass windows were broken, but the moonlight still streamed in?" He'd pause, letting the silence hang, letting the image take root in her mind. "We used to meet there. In the dead of night. Risking everything." His fingers would trace a path lower, finding the soft skin of her inner thigh. "You said the danger made it hotter. Made us hotter."

A jolt would go through Maëlys. Not a clear memory, not yet, but a feeling. A visceral recognition of the thrill, the illicit excitement he described. She would see glimpses: moonlight on dusty pews, the scent of damp stone, the hushed intensity of their stolen breaths. And always, Eliott's eyes, dark with a primal hunger, reflecting her own untamed desire.

His revelations weren't just about the past; they were about reinforcing the present. He was demonstrating, through every shared touch, every whispered secret, that the core of their relationship had always been this raw, consuming intensity. The boundaries between his love and his obsession were so blurred they ceased to exist. He didn't just want her; he needed her, every part of her, the remembered Maëlys and the one he was painstakingly recreating.

One afternoon, he found her sketching in his notebook, lost in the intricate lines of a new design. He came up behind her, silent as a shadow, and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. His chin rested on her shoulder, and he inhaled deeply, his breath warm against her neck.

"What are you drawing, little bird?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

"Just... playing," she replied, a blush creeping up her neck. She was sketching a complicated knot, interwoven with thorns and delicate, impossible blooms. It felt like them.

He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. "A knot, hm? Unbreakable, tangled. Yes. That's us." His hand slid down from her waist, tracing the curve of her hip, his thumb brushing against the barely visible feather tattoo. "And the thorns? For the pain we caused? Or the pain we endure?"

Maëlys tensed. He always saw too much, always pierced straight to the core of her conflicted emotions. "Both," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

He turned her in his arms, pushing the sketchbook aside. His eyes, dark as midnight storms, bore into hers. "There's no running from the thorns, Maëlys. Not for us. But there's unparalleled beauty in the blooming. In what we can build, even from the wreckage." His voice dropped to a seductive purr. "Let me show you the beauty. Let me remind you of the exquisite pleasure that comes from letting go."

He lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and carried her to the large, worn leather sofa. He sat, Maëlys straddling his lap, their bodies flush. The intimacy of the position, the raw heat radiating from him, was overwhelming. His hands found her hair, burying themselves in the strands as he leaned in, his mouth seeking hers.

The kiss began slow, a sensual exploration that deepened with agonizing leisure. His tongue traced the line of her lips, teasing, tasting, before finally sweeping inside, meeting hers in a dance of pure hunger. Maëlys moaned, her fingers clutching his shoulders, the hard muscles flexing under her grip. He tasted of whiskey and his own unique blend of wildness, a taste that had become synonymous with desperate pleasure.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to gaze into her eyes, his breath ragged. "You remember this, don't you?" he rasped, his voice thick with raw desire. "How we used to push each other to the brink? How the line between pleasure and pain dissolved? How you craved my dominance?"

Maëlys felt a powerful current of heat surge through her, a rush of blood to her core. Fragments of memories, hot and illicit, flashed through her mind. The sensation of his rough hands on her skin, the weight of his body pressing her down, the thrilling fear of being utterly consumed. Her body trembled, a raw, uncontrollable response.

He watched her, his eyes burning, a triumphant glint in their depths. He knew. He always knew. He was systematically dismantling her control, brick by agonizing brick, not with force, but with an irresistible, seductive promise of deeper oblivion. His hands slid down her back, finding the waistband of her shorts, expertly pulling the fabric down, over her hips, exposing her bare skin to his touch.

His fingers trailed lower, to the intimate juncture of her thighs, sending a jolt of electrifying pleasure through her. Maëlys gasped, her hips instinctively bucking against him. He pulled her even closer, a soft groan rumbling in his chest.

"You are perfection, little bird," he whispered, his lips tracing the sensitive skin of her inner ear, "and you were made for me. Only for me." His words were a dark lullaby, drawing her deeper into the intoxicating web of his obsession.

He moved, shifting her body, laying her back against the worn leather of the sofa, his body moving to cover hers. The weight of him, familiar and demanding, pressed her into the cushions. He shed his clothes with a casual grace, his tattooed body a landscape of raw power and dangerous beauty. His eyes, dark and heavy with lust, never left hers.

He entered her with a slow, deliberate thrust that made her cry out, a sound of profound pleasure and shattering release. He filled her completely, a breathless, exquisite fit that banished all other thoughts. Maëlys arched into him, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, demanding the complete immersion she craved.

Eliott moved with a powerful, rhythmic precision, his hips grinding against hers, his breath ragged against her ear. He whispered raw, explicit words of desire, of possession, pushing her higher, further, until the boundaries of her consciousness blurred. He was demanding everything, and she was giving it, willingly, desperately. Her nails dug into his back, leaving faint red marks, a testament to the intensity of their shared passion.

The climax, when it came, was a volcanic eruption, a shattering wave that left her breathless, trembling, utterly consumed. Eliott groaned, his body convulsing above her, collapsing against her, his breath ragged against her neck. His arms tightened around her, possessive and protective, binding her to him as surely as any chain.

As their heartbeats slowly synchronized, Maëlys lay tangled with him, the scent of their shared passion heavy in the air. Her mind was a chaotic blend of present desire and agonizing past, each intertwined, inseparable. Eliott was more than just a lover; he was her addiction, her beautiful, dangerous obsession. And in his arms, consumed by the heat of their shared fire, she knew, with terrifying certainty, that she was irrevocably his. The scent of his obsession had become her own, a perfume of danger and desire that promised to consume her, utterly and completely, until the end. And she no longer truly wished to escape.