The creme settles into the liquid, melting clouds and golden mud, the sweetness dancing across red as the mug presses to her lips. Her nails, smudged black, all gloss and dare, trace the empty ring left on the table. She glances up, midnight hair rubbing her cheek, eyes a smirking sea view that say: will you?
And she, the companion, with hair like fire and body that whispers storm, says: "Yes." No questions, no doodled conversation that strays and lingers, no pre-requisites or elaborations or pauses or expectations or anything beyond that moment, that pause between cocoa and office that says: let's.
They stand, abandoning cups still sultry and simmering, and walk through the tangle of tables, the artsy drifters and intellectuals, the students and the businessmen, across the tile with its rhythm of clicks and bangs, into the door that reads "women" beneath a stick figure priss that suddenly looks shocked in her expressionless pose.
The open room has hushed echo clinging to walls and the ceiling, cool lights and the scent of fake summer bouquets. They are alone, if only for a gasp of minutes. And when they press to one another, soft on soft, curve to curve, they can only smell jasmine, and need, and full desire. They can only breathe touch. They can only feel: hot, wet, now.
Yes, let's, yes.
*
Copyright Tasha M, April 2008.
2 comments:
Very nice!
I really enjoyed reading, however, I was expecting many more entries for some reason. Can't wait to see more!! I'll have to email you and tell you about the erotica writing workshop I attended recently. It was "different" :) lol
Angela
Thank you. :) I have a million posts on my other blog, but I just started this writing one. My goal is to post at least once per week so I'll be sharing another by the end of this week... :) And, I would love to hear about your workshop. ;) - love, Tash
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