Snow Falls Softly – from American Concubine
Snow Falls Softly is the second story from American Concubine – it is the night before Josh Caton’s wedding and the girl in his arms is not his fiancé …
Men are governed by lines of intellect – women: by curves of emotion – James Joyce
He kisses my eyes. My lips. My neck. He slowly draws my top over my head and my breath catches as his long kiss caresses the hollow of my throat. I feel the elastic on my bra stretch. I hear the snap of the catch, the pop of the button at the back of my skirt, the crackle of the zipper. My skirt falls to my feet and I step from the folds.
My heart drums and my blood races as his fingers reach for the strips of silk at the side of my panties. He eases the material over the curve of my bottom and I sigh as if relieved of a terrible burden. I am naked and only naked are we completely ourselves.
His lips continue their journey, roaming over the swell of my breasts and down in a line to my belly button, which he licks as I recall licking sherbet from my hand as a little girl. That’s how I feel that instant. Naked after a bath. A little girl wrapped in a big fluffy towel as I am wrapped now in the moment.
He drops to his knees and nuzzles through the garden of my pubic hair. I stroke the back of his head as his tongue dives between the lips of my vagina into the pool of my liquids and secrets. I am a lake, drenched, sopping, overflowing. I can smell the soft breeze of my own arousal. Warm juices run down my thighs. His hands cup my bottom and I have the odd desire to feel their weight, to feel a flash of pain to focus this agony of pleasure. I feel proud, confused, ashamed. I am floating. My entire body has become one erogenous zone. If longing makes the heart grow fonder, I have longed for this moment until my heart was ready to burst.
His tongue runs in a line up the length of my body. We kiss again, my taste on his lips, my body folded into his embrace. He wrestles from my arms, stands back and removes his clothes. I watch as he places them over the chair beside the desk with its clutter of papers, a cup from Starbucks, an iPad with its blue points of light. I wonder if guilt has intensified my feelings and observations. Everything in my mind is sharp like a razor. Josh Caton is forbidden fruit. I am forbidden fruit. Was it coincidence or the motions of the moon that has put us together here, now, like it was meant to be?
He is naked. I admire him like a work of art, a sculpture by Michelangelo. He is six feet, broad with strong legs, large hands and a mesh of bronze hair on his chest. His cock stands straight like an arrow pointing the way, like a lifeline thrown from a boat to a drowning man. Or woman. The sunset is silver in the cold November sky, the light in his office darkening with the dusk. It seems as if we are about to enter a myth, a fairy story, a fantasy, and pause at the gate as adventurers pause before they set out on the final leg of the journey.
“For male readers, the stirring insights Chloe provides into the most intimate sexual machinations of the female mind, simply is a MUST read.” Michael Swanson, Amazon.com