Writing Challenge ~ February 2015

WRITING CHALLENGE ~ FEBRUARY 2015​

You can involve the prompts themselves in your piece and make your link to the prompts as obvious or as subtle as you like or use them simply as inspiration for something else. You can use part of the prompts, just one aspect of the images or the lyrics, or use them in their entirety.

As there are several prompts you can of course chose to use all of them in one piece or write one for each…again, it’s your writing, your challenge. You write whatever you’re inspired to write!

The word limit for this challenge is 2140 words and your submission can take whatever form you desire – poetry or prose, complete story or a vignette. Erotic or not, serious or light hearted, it’s whatever you want it to be!!

Post only your submissions in this thread, constructive comments and reviews are to be posted in the appropriately named – Comment and Review Thread
And please, if you do take the time to read? Please just take a few more minutes to leave a comment.
The deadline for this month’s challenge is Saturday 28th February 2015, with March’s challenge hopefully going live over that weekend.

Previous challenges and reviews can be found here.

Happy writing!

Tongue kisses


"Eh - hey, Canadienne!"

Danielle keeps walking deliberately - she has warned me about scammers - but I hesitate and turn my head in spite of myself, though I know it can't possibly be anyone I know.

Tall and lanky with curly dark hair and merry brown eyes, and when he smiles, my heart aches for things I've never known - he is closer than I would have guessed. I glance back at my friend. She has stopped and she is making that face as he stops too, and continues, a little breathless:

"You are from Canada?"

I can't help returning his smile. She has warned me about being too friendly. I follow his pointed gaze, but know it before I see that it's the keychain, of course. Red and white, clipped to the zipper of my purse, prominently displayed as per the advice of more seasoned travelers. But he's looking past my purse now, dragging his gaze from the hem of my short skirt, lazily across the curves of my body to finally meet my eyes. Unabashedly. Still smiling as I nod.

"Where in Canada?" he wants to know.

My friend is groaning, but I can't see the harm in it.

"Nova Scotia," I chirp in response, and then, trying my grade twelve French: "Nouvelle Écosse."

He blinks, frowning and shaking his head, "Oh - ah, Scotland?"

"No - no - in Canada, it's - " I take a step toward him and feel my friend's cold fingers curl around my wrist and pull insistently in the other direction.

"The line is moving," she informs me firmly, glaring fiercely at him as I smile apologetically and shuffle a step closer to the museum entrance. He isn't in line.

He shrugs, smiling amusedly at my friend's indignance.

"Ah well," he says, "You are beautiful, Canadienne!"

Danielle snaps at him in a rapid-fire rattle of French, and then repeats in English, for my benefit, "Yes - you know her husband tells her that every day!"

He proffers her one cursory glance, and then he's watching me, and I can feel my cheeks flushing slightly. I have neither ring nor husband to show for myself, but neither will I contradict her. I know she has my best interests at heart.

He shrugs again, skeptical but resigned. "Then he is lucky. You are very beautiful."

And I can't help it, I can feel myself fluttering, flattering as he takes in my body again, and my lips purse and twitch on a reckless little smile. Politeness is ingrained, obligatory.

"Oh - well, thank you. Merci."

The line moves ahead and he keeps pace with us, risking the wrath of my friend to lean in close and murmur, "So...are you interested?"

My smile falters and I blurt without thinking, "In - in what?"

He parts his lips and then Danielle's raised voice drowns out anything he might have answered.

"No, you're not - you're not - she's not -"

Another barrage of angry French, and this time he has some words for her in return, and no one bothers to translate for me, but I get the gist.

People in line are turning to look, and at last he raises his eyebrows and his hands to show me how utterly harmless he really is. He is backing away and I notice that the palms of his hands are dirty - Paris is so dirty, they told me - just before he tips me a roguish wink and turns to jog away across the courtyard.

I sputter on a bewildered little laugh, aware that I am blushing again as I face my friend's dark scowl.

"Interested - in - what?"

"French men are pigs," is all she will say on the matter. "Don't talk to them. Come on, we're next - they will want to x-ray your bag."





Later, lingering on the bridge to admire the sunset before we head back, the cluster of bright colors catches my eye and I exclaim, "Oh wow - hang on! What's this? Let me get a picture!"

Digging my phone out as she waits with an impatient sigh while I line up the shot and zoom and click and then step up to finger a hunk of cold metal.

"What are these? Is it art?"

She rolls her eyes at me. Touristes.

"They are - " I can almost hear the wheels turning as it takes her a moment to recall the word. "Locks. Of love."

Her accent has thickened since I saw her last, so that it sounds more like "luff," and I bite back a grin as she explains:

"Lovers...boyfriends and girlfriends, engaged people, married - they put them here to declare their love for each other. Lock them on and throw the key away. It's supposed to mean forever."

We are walking along slowly now. I am letting my fingers graze and bump over the shapes of the hundreds or thousands of locks - engraved and emblazoned with names and hand-written testaments in every language. I gasp and laugh as my fingers get caught up in a knot of ribbon, tugging and jerking two heart-shaped helium balloons someone has tied to the railing.

"Oh - ha - looks like at least one person wasn't ready for that kind of commitment!"

I stop to disentangle myself and shake my head incredulously. "It's amazing - it's beautiful. Romantic!"

It's her turn to raise her brows, lips twisting on a withering smile. "It's a nuisance. A hazard. The bridge is crumbling under the weight of all the love."

I sigh, a little weary of her cynicism on my holiday, and mutter lightly, "Well...even the Mona Lisa's falling apart."

"Canadienne!"

Danielle groans and curses in French and tries to pull me along as he trots to catch up. When I won't move fast enough, she wheels around to confront him again, and I skitter between them, facing her and gripping her forearms a little too tightly, smiling a little too brightly,

"You know what? It's okay. Why don't you go on without me? I'll find my way back. Okay? It's okay."

She is glaring at him as he pulls up close behind me and I feel him put his hands on my shoulders. His breath ruffles the hair tucked behind my ear as he promises, "I will take care of her. Don't worry."

I squeeze her just below the elbows to make her look at me, and I stop smiling to show her I'm serious. "I'll meet you back there. It's okay. I won't do anything stupid."

Her eyes are very hard on me - and only on me as she answers stiffly, "No. Don't do anything stupid. You know where it is. Get off at Créteil-Université, and then you have to walk. If you call me, I can meet you -"

I am nodding and nodding as he is drawing me away, and she snaps some word at him that I was never taught in high school. He is wise enough, this time, not to reply.

"Call me," she says, and finally she lets me go and turns her back on us to walk in the direction of the Métro, and then his arms are around me from behind and he is smiling into the back of my neck.

I walk and make him walk with me until I can curl my fingers around the cold railing and watch the sun sinking below the horizon.

"I knew you would find me, Canadienne," he is saying as I lean in to feel the unyielding shapes of all that weighty, destructive love pressing into my thighs.

I am staring straight into the sun and I feel another distinctive shape pressing into me from behind as I murmur, "You were so sure?"

"Oui," he says. "I always know."

I say nothing. He is putting his warm lips against my flushed earlobe and his hands are busy at my waist, gathering my skirt up in handfuls. I keep my hands where they are. He rests his chin on my shoulder to stare in the same direction, and after a moment he turns his head to look into my face.

"You like it?" His hands are moving again, I can feel the chill between my legs.

"Like what?"

"My city."

I snort, and he straightens to his full height behind me, his voice over my head as he continues, "The sunset, the colors, the Seine - it is beautiful, non?"

His hand is riding up my bare thigh and I shudder as he slips two fingers into the leg of my underwear, but I wrinkle my nose - snarly all of a sudden as I think of his grubby fingers - and comment, "Yeah, but it stinks."

I lean hard against the rail as I feel him push up inside my wetness, and we grunt our appreciation in different languages. He probes deeply as I press my hips back against him, and then pulls out and brings his hand up, holding his fingers under my nose.

"You are sure it's the Seine?"

Gasping on my outrage, I turn on my heel and my hand flashes up to crack soundly across his cheek - and then he has caught my wrist, and the other one, smiling as if he's been expecting it - as if he gets that a lot, and he's holding me tightly as I try to twist away.

"Ce n'est pas gentil - you would hurt me, Canadienne?" Turning me around so that I am facing the river again, holding my hands behind my back so he can push me up against the railing and push his hips up into me to make me feel his erection. "You like it like this?"

My answering shudder makes him chuckle, and he is commenting absently as he takes both my wrists in one large hand and works quickly with the other to unbutton his jeans and loose his cock.

"Yes, I think you like it. Hm?" Flipping my skirt up impatiently, jerking my panties down. "Rough like this. You want to hurt?"

I don't know how to answer - I don't know what I want - I stare out at the stinking river as I feel his bare cock brushing against my skin and then pressing up between my thighs. I try not to imagine where it's been. Paris is so dirty, they told me. There are tourists still milling indolently across the bridge in ones and twos and threes - it's not quite dark yet - I have time to realize that I could scream, and then his cock is jutting up into me, his hand tightening on my wrist as if he thinks I will fight him. I'm ready and not ready for it, and yes it hurts a little, and yes, I like it. I part my lips and only a sharp gasp escapes them, and he laughs again, pinning me to the railing as he works his way deeper.

"There," he grunts. "Yes."

He lets go my wrists and guides one hand to the railing, lacing his fingers through mine and sliding his other up the back of my neck, ready to keep me there - but I don't struggle. I stretch my free arm out long in the opposite direction, letting my fingers pluck at the ribbons tied there, making the cheery red balloons bob in time with his hard thrusts.

He leans in to rest his chin on my shoulder again and we both watch as the faint glow goes out of the sky and the lights wink on in Paris in ones and twos and threes. He is murmuring into my hair:

"My city. You know where I have been?"

I don't want to think of where he's been.

"All over. Everywhere. And always, I find girls like you."

I am tugging more fiercely at the ribbons, picking restlessly at the knots when I feel his fingers, from around the front this time, pulling up into me - and I am ready, and my knees buckle and he shoves me back up with his hips.

I am weak with it, trembling and whining with it, and he growls quietly, "Say it. Beg."

But his fingers are too quick and sure, and even as I'm wailing, "Please - s'il vous plait - " I am leaning hard against him, sinking my weight onto his driving cock, surrendering to the deep, heady pleasure he is drawing from me.

And he mutters, "Your French is terrible," and wraps one arm tight around my chest, pulling me to him, squeezing the breath out of me as his thrusts become frantic and he barks once - hoarsely, half a laugh over my head and then stiffens and comes in silence, comes deep inside my trembling cunt.

By degrees he lets me go, and I test my lungs as the crush of his arm around me subsides. For a moment I'm sure we look like lovers, and then he slips out of me with a step back. I turn around at last, letting my skirt fall down against my thighs. I can feel his wetness or mine in the cool breeze off the water.

His smile is smug. He leans in to kiss me as he tucks himself back into his jeans, and I turn my face so that it lands on my cheek.

"Don't miss your train, chérie," he says quietly, already beginning to back away.

I know I ought to feel insulted - I glance down at the railing, to where all these tokens of everlasting love have been locked in place. The balloons are gone. Somehow, in my scrabbling, I must have set them free.

Good. I think. They deserve a chance at a better story than this.

When I look back again, my Parisian prince (and his penis) have disappeared just as silently into the darkness.

I gaze out at the lights across the river and beyond, stifling a little shiver as the night sets in. I ought to feel used, I ought to feel ashamed - something... All I can feel is the warm slick of slop - his, that's definitely his - pooling in my panties.

And I find myself smiling, in amongst the love locks, like a girl enchanted by the romance of it all.

When they ask me, I will agree with them: yes, you were right, Paris is dirty - filthy, disgusting.

And I loved every minute of it.



Over the word limit - d'oh. And of course I did something like this with it. Raise your hand if you're surprised.

None I Say

A frozen rose in bloom, love outlasting rot and death within an icy tomb. What better sign to pluck for love than a flower ne'er-wilting? None I say, for none exist in mortal coil's twisting.

A dusky sky bereft of light, save a lofty air balloon. The fire burns a beacon bright for lovers lost in gloom. What better guide to shine for love than flame akin to stars? None I say, for none exist in a world as wide as ours.

Locks and keys and keys and locks, latched to links of chain. The remnants left of love's eternal promise, exposed to rust and time and rain. What better exposition of love's endurance than to throw away the keys? None I say, for none exist in spectrums we can see.

Taking Flight


“Are we there yet?”

“No. Not quite.”

It was silent once more. The occasional ripple of the silks above was all that broke the night.

She lifted the flap concealing one of the larger holes in the basket and stuck her head through, the wind ruffling her hair beneath her hood as she stared down into the seemingly endless gloom below.

“Do you think the people down there, the ones so far from the fighting, do you think they know what’s coming?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“I didn’t ask what you know,” she pulled her head back through with an exasperated sigh and looked pointedly at the man on the other side of the large basket in which they were travelling through the night sky. “I asked what you think.”

He laughed.

“Something funny?” A delicate eyebrow rose over a glimmering eye.

“Remember at the quayside, when you begged me to help you.”

“When I asked for your assistance.” she corrected, sitting up a little straighter.

“When you begged me to help you,” he repeated, making no attempt to keep the mirth from his voice. “And I agreed. It wasn’t those pretty eyes of yours that convinced me it would be worth my while, it was that tone.”

“Tone?” Her pretty eyes narrowed slightly.

“You had the tone of someone who’s used to getting what they want. Someone who’s had to deal with very little in the way of disappointment.” He grinned as her expression grew darker. “Entitlement rolled off of you in waves, no matter how you tried to hide it beneath the clothes you’d obviously borrowed. Your maid’s I’d guess. Or whatever the hell you people call them. I knew if I helped you I’d be suitably rewarded.”

“They’re called ladies in waiting, if you must know, and how…did you know?” Her anger lessened slightly as curiosity got the better of her and she looked down at the simple dress she wore.

“That you were royal?”

She nodded.

“Well, aside from the fact that you were so desperate to get of a city under siege when the only people who stood to lose anything were those living in the castle, it was the assumption that I’d help you just because you told me to.”

“Excuse me,” she rose sharply to her feet, trying to ignore how the basket swayed at the change in weight distribution. A hand reaching out to hold the edge as she tried to make every inch of her relatively short frame as tall as possible. The grinning man, his teeth bright against the stubble that darkened his jaw, was still a head taller. “If you think that the only people who have something to lose in what is happening then you’re dumber than I thought it possible for a person to be. The thugs that broke into my home are going to do the same to yours and your family’s. Your friend’s. My family has fought for years to keep our borders secure, keep the people safe and keep those marauders out.”

“Fought by and paid for with the blood of the people you supposedly protect.” His tone darkened as the grin faltered.

“It’s true, many have lost their lives trying to protect the freedom of people they’ve never met. But so too has my family. My brother was killed in the battle in the mountains, countless cousins and dear friends who led the people fell alongside them.” She frowned, forcing herself to continue, taking a step towards him. “And this very night my own father, the very best of men, was slain as he tried to guarantee the liberty and fair treatment of his people at the hands of greedy mercenaries who think they should be allowed to just take what they want.” Her lip trembled as another step closed the distance between them. “My mother soon lay beside him for no crime other than loving him and her people.”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry, I…I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t know. Just like you didn’t know that I ran because I had to. If I’d stayed, if I’d been found, I would have been married off to that monster of a leader and as soon as he’d managed to…to…” She was determined not to cry. “Well, the throne would then have been his. A child of my bloodline would have been the irrefutable monarch and he, as father, would have had the power to do as he wished. Unopposed.”

The night was silent again. She stood a step or two from him now, shaking from the cool wind biting through the thin cloak she’d used to cover her head as she’d fled the only home she’d ever known and from the struggle to contain the emotions she’d been taught her whole life to hide.

“I knew had to get away, far away. If I can raise an army to help me retake the castle and the capital then perhaps we can have our country back. I’m sure we can.”

He laughed softly, moving towards her to nudge the hood of the cloak back from her head. The glow of the flame above them making her lilac toned eyes sparkle, highlighting the pale smoothness of her skin and the

“You? Raise an army? But you’re little more than a child.”

She frowned and he laughed again.

“You don’t know what you’re doing. Honestly, princess, you’d be better off just disappearing. Find yourself a nice quiet village where no one knows who you are, get yourself a nice boy and live a quiet life.”

“Running away? Abandoning everyone who ever looked to my family for help?” She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I can’t. I won’t.”

“But you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Just because you know nothing about responsibility or duty doesn’t mean you can stand there and-!”

She began hotly before his finger appeared before her lips, pressing ever so gently and silencing her in an instant.

“Alright. Maybe I shouldn’t try to tell you what to do and for that I apologise. There’s clearly a lot about the life of a princess that I know very little about.” He bowed his head slightly, lowering his emerald gaze before his eyes found hers in the flickering light once more. “But then, please, extend the same courtesy to me, your highness. Don’t be so quick to assume you know everything about me either.”

“You don’t need to…” she began quietly, “I’m Giselle. And I’m sorry if I was rude, whatever the circumstances there was no need to speak to you like that, especially when you’ve helped me so very much.”

“It’s a pleasure, Giselle,” he took her hand and pressed a chivalrous kiss to its back. It made her laugh in surprise, the sound was bright and suited her, “I’m Ethan and I’m sorry too. I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through this night and, well, while I can’t change what has been done I can promise to do whatever I can to help you set things right.”

His hand still held hers just as her eyes held his. She smiled and he smiled back.

They were probably no more than six or seven years apart in age although he didn’t think their lives could have been more different. Hers protected and planned, his rough and for the most part dangerous. He’d grown up chasing the shadows of his older brothers in and out of the taverns by the quayside and then followed them onto the fishing boats that bobbed like corks in the harbour. Fishing brought in an honest wage that he dutifully took home to his mother whenever they put into port but then came the time he’d come home to find a broken door and his mother nowhere in sight. The neighbours said taxes had been raised and she’d been unable to make ends meet. She had been taken to a debtor’s prison to pay off her debt to the crown. And so taking to the sea with empty nets to fill had changed to empty pockets and a sharp blade to hand, a small band of increasingly desperate young men preying on the heavily laden merchant ships bringing produce and money to the kingdom. Revenge didn’t help him sleep at night but it did ease the ache when he thought of the home he had lost.

He, meanwhile, was so different to anyone she had ever met. Her life had been courtiers and the sons of noble men. Vapid and lifeless. Dull. Definitely not the sort of men she could rule a kingdom alongside. She needed someone with passion and strength. She had always known love would likely be an afterthought to any union she made. A profitable alliance of kingdoms, a joining of powerful families. She was but a pawn in the game of old men. Ethan seemed, as far as she knew, to be a man of his own creation. As she had fled the castle, her silks and finery changed for the simpler dress of one of her ladies in waiting, she had scanned the faces she scurried past looking first for someone who looked trustworthy and secondly for someone who looked brave. Apart from girlish descriptions in the occasional novel she had managed to sneakily read when her governesses weren’t looking, she didn’t have much of a field of reference. She’d seen him sat by the quay, his body looking relaxed as he idly twirled a short but lethal looking blade in his fingers. His position was relaxed but his eyes were always alert. Moving from face to face as people walked by, muscles tensing almost imperceptibly whenever anyone got a little too close for his liking.

She had no idea as she’d drawn in a deep breath and strode up to him as boldly as she dared whether he would be able to her, she just had to hope. Realising how much she owed this relative stranger, whom she knew she had been less than civil with from the moment they met, believing distance from him would keep her somehow safer, she quickly moved forwards and hugged him.

He tensed but only for a moment before his arms curled around her gently. She was still trembling. His lips pressed to the top of her head in a soft kiss. Her hair smelt like the frangipan flowers that grew all along the coast they were leaving behind and it was…distracting.

Floating through the night sky they held each other. She let herself cry against his chest, letting the hurt and the fear out for the first time since she’d heard the fate of her parents. He stroked her long hair, kissing her hair and then her forehead. Not speaking, he knew there were no words that would help her. Then as he bent to kiss her head again his mouth unexpectedly found hers.

Her lips were trembling more than any other part of her and they were almost impossibly soft. For a moment he wondered if he was the first man to kiss her, then he wondered if he might be the last. He guided her to deepen the kiss, a hand rising to cup her cheek while the other slipped down to her waist. She half murmured something as her hand mimicked his, feeling the scratch of stubble against her palm but neither of them cared enough to find out what it was. Kissing with increasing confidence, and need, they turned slowly until her back was to the wall of the basket. His lips trailed down the side of her neck and she felt a thrill race from each point of contact they made down her spine to somewhere deep inside. A heat steadily building with every kiss, fresh sparks rising up with every gentle exploration of his hands.

As the first grey light of dawn crept along the distant horizon they were laid together, his heavy cloak covering tangled limbs and bare skin. The world that was waking below was not the one that had awoken the previous day. A war was coming.

The two souls that slumbered lightly among the gradually lightening clouds had changed too. They were no longer princess and pirate, two unlikely travel companions brought together by fate and fear. Their lives would forever now be entwined, wherever the wind might take them.

Displacement

I love Paris in the springtime,
I love Paris in the fall,
I love Paris,
Why, oh why do I love Paris...

Kara gritted her teeth and fought to suppress the growl that rose up within her. Thoroughly annoyed as that song's ridiculous melody popped into her head yet again, she kept walking. The clicking of her heels growing louder as her steps and pace increased in their vigor.

"I hate Paris." She grumbled bitterly, to no one other than herself. It was a simple truth, no exaggeration - just fact.

In the eight months since she had moved here, she had experienced little that would cause her to feel much affection for the world proclaimed "City of Love". She knew that almost anyone and everyone she knew - hell probably even a great many she didn't know - would disagree or disapprove of her sentiments. Perhaps they would even call her ungrateful of her good fortune, after all who wouldn't relish the opportunity to live in such a city. All the same, Kara really hated Paris. At least, she did now.

Before she had first arrived, Kara had been as starry eyed as the next person. Equally obsessed with and blinded by the fantasy of Parisian joie de vivre, la vie en rose, toujours l'amour and all the other insipid sayings and quotes you always hear on television and in movies. So naturally, it hadn't been difficult for her to say yes when Max had first proposed the notion of her moving.

Paris is for lovers, cherie. That was the line that had got her. The line that had momentarily made her fancy herself to be some modern day Audrey Hepburn in all her"Paris is always a good idea" glory. Max had only to utter those words and follow them up with a promise to take care of her and she had all but jumped at the idea. Who wouldn't be so easily seduced by the thought of moving to Paris with their French artist fiancé? His pledges and promises had been endless, and Kara had had no reason not to believe his every word. So, she had packed up her old life in order to begin their new one. She never imagined it would be to her downfall.

The first several weeks of living there had been idyllic and blissful, almost like drifting through the air.Their days always full of the kind of excitement that often surrounds all first time adventures. Max had been eager to show her his home, the place he loved and claimed inspired him almost as much as she did. Kara had wanted to love it for Max's sake, for their futures sake. She had wanted to learn it's secrets and to know it inside and out. She had tried... tried so desperately.

Months had gone by, some far too quickly, while others seemed to drag on and on. And as time passed their joys seemed to fade. They argued more and more with each passing day; both of them unhappy. Kara seemingly unable to settle into what little semblance of a routine they had created. While Max seemed incapable of resisting the temptations and distractions of the city.

It was one of those very fights that had her out walking now. Eyes still damp and blurred by tears, she trusted her feet to guide her wherever they may. As always they led her to the path she knew best just along the river. She brought herself to a stop as she crossed the Pont des Arts with its lock laden rails, and stood at the spot that had become far too familiar to her in recent months. Her smile was sad as she looked out over the water to where the setting sun caused the glassy surface to sparkle and dance with crystalline light.

She recalled how she had once thought that this was the most romantic spot in the city. Locks of love, declarations of devotion for all the world to see. She didn't see the romance in it now... she couldn't. Instead all she saw were the over compensations and weighty lies that so often bound two souls together. Love wasn't meant to be measured in metal, she thought as her gaze dropped to the ring on her left hand.

Kara had no illusions, she knew that life was no movie. She didn't expect to stand there and have any sudden or grand epiphanies. She was smart enough to know that her problems couldn't be solved by looking out at the river. Nonetheless some part of her held out hope that she would find herself and her place in Paris. For all his shortcomings, she loved Max, that much she knew. And yet she wondered if that was enough. A flash of red caught her eye as she turned to make her way back home. Standing still a while longer, she watched as two heart shaped balloons rose into the sky, wafting ever upward on the cool evening air. On pure impulse, she found herself wishing she could feel that carefree again.

The apartment was silent when she got back. All the earlier tensions of the evening were gone, and only a quiet sadness lingered. She was standing at the window looking out at the sky when Max returned, though she didn't hear him come in. She only knew he was there when she felt his arms around her. Though she hesitated at first, she couldn't deny that it felt natural to lean back onto him, and to let his strong frame support her own. When he brushed the dewy petals of a rose beneath her nose and across her lips, she sighed and let her eyes flutter closed. There was no need for apologies or words by the time his lips kissed the crook of her neck. Heat was pooling at her core when she felt his fingertips brushing the inside of her thighs. And just like that, she was floating ... drifting high amidst the clouds once more.