Monday, July 17, 2006

Contortion By Thunderstorm - Opus I

She loved the scent of him. It rose from his body like the waves radiating off hot pavement. The blistering heat of day had descended into a muggy, cloying heat but neither cared as moisture beaded on their brows and dancing rivulets of sweat trickled down their bent spines. His hand was in her lap where she massaged his long fingers. He brought the corner of his forehead against her’s, rubbing like a needy cat. “Hot and sweaty, like I like my woman,” he said. She felt his eyes on her breast and he twisted his head and even through her shirt and her bra, he unerringly found her nipple and teased it until it strained against the material. Without thought, she found her hands in his hair, urging him on, and from hooded lids, she saw the first streak of lightening. Supple fingers traced through paths of slickness up her bare back to her bra strap and agilely he popped each of the clasps, releasing her, and again, tracing paths of slickness, lifting the damp garment from her skin, exposing her to him and anyone who cared to saunter by. She did not care. His lips and tongue and teeth were on her breast, almost savagely they strained against one another. He was not gentle and she did not want him to be. She looked down into his eyes and he licked first one, then the other, nipple, teasing her. He glanced around her, perhaps seeking one who was not there and again he descended to her breast and she was powerless under the onslaught, and from hooded lids, she saw another streak of lightening, closer, and far in the distance, whether real or simply unheard over the roaring in her ears, thunder. Kissing along his hairline, she inhaled his intoxicating scent, his essence, releasing more as she clawed down his back, raising his t-shirt so she could touch more bare skin. Gliding her hands down his sleekness, she kissed his forehead before raising her arms, bending at the elbows and pulled any hope of cover free from her body. He growled, he fingers biting into the soft skin of her mid-back, over the muscles, over the ribs, where within lay her beating heart. She cupped his face as a streak of lightning arced across the sky and she became aware at last of their gasps and moans as thunder rumbled. His tongue lapped at the sweat between her breasts, that forgotten sensitive spot, and she brought her temple against his and she felt his consciousness raise, as did her’s. Their lips were mere inches apart, their breath co-mingling. Did they dare open this Pandora’s Box after so long?
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