I think we all have a habit of writing stories in our heads. Rehearsing conversations before they happen, re-writing moments long after they are behind us. My stories have a theme. The plots change, but the intent remains the same. Of course, I have to wonder – where does the hero of the story go next? Save a damsel, slay theevil witch, retire to Florida…
…nah. I think I’ll have him seduce the evil witch, have her assist in seducing the damsel next, and then have all three do very wicked things to the local populace. In Florida and elswhere.
Why not? It’s what I would do.
There was quiet in the way he stood behind her, a silence of intent felt not just in the firm grip his hands had on her waist, but in the subtle presence of his body along her back and the heat of his breath tickling the nape of her neck. A quiet born of patience.
She feared and hungered for his hands, his teeth, his lips. For what they brought out of her. For what they reduced her to. She recalled the last time he had come for her. Each time she had felt fingers there when she had expected them here. Each t ime she had gasped in surprise from the sharp sensation of fingernails digging into skin where she had expected a gentle touch. He had written poetry on her thighs and whispered secrets against her breasts. He had pulled her under again and again, letting her up for air just long enough for a single breath before taking her down again. It was in moments made of these, that was she was laid bare and he feasted. Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes temptation was a sin worth losing yourself in.
Into the stillness of temptation he spoke.
“Do you remember? Can your skin recall the feel? Yes. Yes, you do, you remember in places you thought well hidden.”
His hands moved gracefully around her waist, meeting in the front; she felt fingers trace the edge of her shirt, tempting the line between fabric and flesh. Just a shirt. Just a shirt between him and her. Carefully, it seemed, his fingers curled around the edge and she felt fingertips brush the surface of her skin.
Her body trembled quietly as she drew in a deep breath, almost scared to breathe while assaulted with the delicate, almost torturing touch of his fingertips. Fingertips moved upwards, under the edge of the shirt, traced along the edge, against bare skin and the top of her thigh. His fingers slid with a slow purpose around to the back and then down along the smooth skin to the back of her knee. Like a whisper, his breath brushed across the back of her neck, the warm presence of his body against her pressed just a bit closer. The subtle shift of his body accompanied his hands as they pressed across the front, shifted positions under the shirt, and found the front of her thighs…
Ahhh, to feel the stillness of temptation and the chaos of control.