Copyright © 2006 F.R.R. Mallory
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
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"Mine." He whispered back, inhaling her breath with his mouth. She tasted of dark nights, hidden moons, and vapors rising up from still waters. She tasted of hunger, lust, the reddened blur of primal passion.
"Mine," he repeated. His hands rose to cup and lift her breasts, rubbing her nipples across his in little arcs of erotic fire. His chest muscles tensed as if prodded by miniature electrodes that sent tiny shockwaves running down his stomach wall to arouse him further. His right hand slid up the curve of her breast to the small hollow where her shoulder met her neck. His fingers lingered there, with his thumb rubbing across the throb of her pulse, curling around the right side of her neck, lifting and bending her neck, demonstrating his control.
Her half-lidded eyes seemed to accept this power shift between them, as did the way her tongue darted against her lips. Tiny gasps escaped from between them. He snaked his hand up under her hair, right at the back of her skull, and curled his fingers down to tug her head back. She shuddered against him.
"Mine." He whispered, his lips just grazing hers, as if he could breathe the word down inside of her to make it take root there. He bent her neck back, forcing her body to curve into his, and pressed into fuller contact. Her eyes fluttered open and for just a moment he thought he saw laughter there, a game, her game, then the moment slipped away from him again when her eyes closed.
* * *
Copyright © 2006 F.R.R. Mallory
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
"You are getting wet." The man's voice had a soft, warm quality.
Cherie's flush deepened, how did he know she was wet? The tawdry thought plunked through her, the product of too many years fielding sexual innuendos from nearly everyone she encountered. It was a by-product of being a syndicated sex-advice columnist. She swallowed a half dozen inappropriate responses and tried stuffing her thoughts back into the corners of her mind. He meant wet from the plastic wrapped flowers. She smiled up at him, hoping to alleviate any notions he might have that she was seriously hurt.
"Yes, I suppose I am." She managed to reply with only a hint of her thoughts influencing the tone of her voice.
His eyes narrowed, eyebrows drawing together as if he were sorting through her words with great care. Then his features cleared, expression retreating from concern to something approaching just a hint of amusement. He pushed himself upright, managing to make the move graceful, yet all the while he retained her hand in his.
Cherie noticed, even though she tried not to. Even when he pulled her easily to her feet yet seemed to know she was shaking too much to let her go, just yet. She watched him lean down to rescue her purse, book and pad and a single undamaged lily. She wanted to do it herself but discovered her 'independent woman' thoughts were not nearly so sweet as watching and experiencing being taken care of. His tending of her felt intimate, personal.
"I've spoiled your flowers," Cherie whispered, noticing he didn't seem bothered to carry her purse as he guided her up onto the sidewalk. Where had she seen this man, before the whole flower thing? The thought worried her. She was notoriously bad at remembering names. What if he expected her to know his name and she didn't?