The Fire That Burns

When mother asked whether I would care to water her plants during her absence I had assumed she'd bring the plants over... not that I'd have to move into her secluded cottage in the country for the duration of two weeks.

Not that the cottage wasn't homey; not only was the living room straight out of a rom- com with its bookcases and fireplaces and comfy furniture but it was also the middle of November with raindrops beating against the tiles of the roof in a hypnotic rhythm that would make you drowsy regardless of the hour.

I take another sip of my Shiraz as I stare into the cosy fire.

Of course there's the downside of being completely alone. None of my friends in Manchester could just leisurely take a few days off for the magical autumn getaway. It will just be mother's wine selection, the potted plants and me.

As I'm about dwell back into my Carter, the doorbell rings.

I groan as I'm compelled to unravel myself from the warmth of the blankets. It's not like anyone is supposed to come visit, nor have I ordered a pizza... yet. Do they even deliver pizza this far out?

I open the door to face a miserable-looking delivery lad.

"Afternoon. Sorry to bother you. Mind accepting a parcel for Mr Murphy of next door?"

I look at him confused. "Just come on in out of the rain for a second."

The boy couldn't have been older than 19. He steps in thankfully.

"Would you like a cup of tea or a... towel... or something?"

"No, no, it's alright. I must get going soon anyways." Out of his bag he pulls out a decent sized, brown paper-wrapped parcel. He hands it to me. It's addressed to a Mr. Stephen Murphy.

"I'm sorry but this is the Smith residence," I object.

"Oh, yes, it's just that he wasn't home. He lives down the road."

"Oh..."

"Usually the folks around here just ask us to leave it on the porch but seeing as Stephen's one is currently under progress it didn't seem right leaving it at weather's mercy, if you know what I mean..."

"Alright..."

"Just sign here..."

I scribble an unintelligible mock of a signature on his portable device.

"Thank you miss. Goodbye."

I'm left with the surprisingly heavy package in my hands, as the boy runs through the downpour into his van and drives off.

I read the address. Layton Lane 58. I wonder how many doorbells the poor kid must've rang to get all the way to house no. 37.

---

The unwelcome buzzing of the doorbell alerts me out of my slumber. The doorbell impatiently rings again and again. The sun must've already gone down; if it weren't for the fire, the room would've been pitch black. I must have dozed off.

The doorbell rings again. "Yeah, Yeah! Jesus Christ..."

I stumble my way to the door. As I turn the doorknob the wind violently blasts the door open and an icy spray of rain hits my face with full force. Outside it was just a dark grey



haze, where I could barely make out the silhouettes of bare trees that the storm was desperately trying to uproot. My mothers rose bushes were being savagely beaten by the rain.

I instinctively step back as a tall, cloaked figure pushes its way in. With much effort, the stranger manages to push the door shut, sealing the raging wet hell into the womb that gave birth to it.

My late visitor is breathless, as if having just finished a marathon. He takes off his hood and looks at me through a mess of dark hair with his brown beady eyes. The scent of rain is saturated on him.

"Evening," he mumbles with water running down his nose.

"Evening," I manage to gasp out. "Mr Murphy, I presume?"

"Bingo."

I gulp embarrassed. He was a tall, well-built fellow in his 30s. One might say he looked typically English with his dark brown, slightly curly hair that was matched by slight, even beard. A large hooked nose dominated his face and his skin was blushed on the few spots where it wasn't protected by hair.

"I'm sorry. I had fallen asleep," I guiltily admit.

Mr Murphy melancholically nods in silence.

Remembering my manners in witnessing his sad discomfort I blurt out: "Please take off your cloak. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Got anything stronger?" he mumbles.

I sigh sympathically. Men. "Sure. Whisky?"

"Whisky would be lovely."

After having given him brief instructions as to place his soaked outerwear, I go pour him a glass of Teacher's in the kitchen.

"Do you need a towel?" I call out.

He soon enters the kitchen wearing a thin white cotton shirt and jeans. I'm surprised to find his frame to be lean, a fact that was previous masterfully hidden beneath his rain cloak. It then dawns me that his shirt and jeans have large wet patches on them. I had seriously underestimated the water damage.

"Perhaps a shower would be wiser," he suggests.

I consider it. The storm outside keeps on raging and I realise it would be irresponsible of me to expect him to go back out there. As for his attire and weather-beaten jeans, he might contract pneumonia if he didn't get changed quickly.

"Right... You are absolutely right. Follow me."

I walk him past my parents' bedroom to the en-suite accompanying it. "I'm sure I'll find you something to change into. Can't promise it will fit well though..."

The soaked cotton shirt left stuck against his chest, revealing his beautifully developed upper body. Despite my conscious effort to avert my gaze, my irises involuntary return to marvel the short dark hair spread out on his chest.

"There should be towels in the bathroom, just make your pick. I'll leave some clothes for you here..."

What am I doing? This guy is likely to freeze to death if I keep on blabbering like a silly teenage girl.

Yet his eyes seem to soften into a molten chocolate. With his voice thick with kind appreciation, he replies: "Cheers. You're being very kind."

I can't help but let a soft smile escape my lips. He responds to it with his shy smile of his own.

"I'll leave you to it then. I'll be in the living room."

The door closes. I let out a deep breath and gasp at what I'm wearing. Pajamapants. A way to make a first impression, I scold myself before finding a mirror to witness the state of chaos my hair is in. I groan in pain. I guess it has been too long. Way too long. After rummaging through my stepfather's wardrobe for anything that might fit my guest, I settle with a plain dark grey tee and sweatpants. I place them neatly on the bed with a pair of socks and slippers.

It's too late to dolly up; he has already seen me. Yet I quickly brush my chestnut hair, put it on a ponytail and wash my face to appear less like the slob I am. I readjust the pillows on the sofa in a more orderly manner and place our drinks to wait on the coffee table.

I reopen my book. Maybe reading will calm me down or at least make me look occupied. A few nervous minutes pass by before I hear his heavy stride down the hall.

I glance out of my book as he enters the room and greet him with a kind smile. The t- shirt is too large for him and the slacks baggy but despite it all he seems comfortable in his outfit. My eyes wander down to his thick hairy arms.

"It looks good on you," I mumble with my eyes glued on his triceps.

He grins. "Thanks." He leisurely takes a seat on the other end of the couch.

In an effort to think of a topic for small talk I suddenly remember I haven't introduced myself.

"I'm Rachael, by the way," I hold out my hand for a shake.

He shakes his head with a smile. "Oh I know. Stephen." His rough hand shakes mine. "Your mother has told me a lot about you."

"She has?" I gasp. I send a mental prayer to the Gods that my mother hasn't complained of me to this stranger. Especially now that I was getting attracted to him.

"Yeah, we are in good terms. I made those fitted bookshelves for them a few months back. And the bathroom reno."

"Oh... So you're what? The local handyman?"

"I suppose you could say so," he chuckles.

"So what has my mother been telling you about me?" I ask cheekily.

"Just that you're a journalist and perpetually single."

"I am not!"

"A journalist?"

"Perpetually single!"

"But you are single, aren't you?" he teasingly eyes me from behind his whisky glass.

I'm compelled to smile in defeat.

As the storm rages outside, I learn more of Stephen. He tells me about how he grew up in the area with an older brother and how he buys local real estates for renovation and then resells the modernized English shepherd's dream to the highest bidder. I talk to him of my life in turn. Listening to him talk, I begin to fantasize about those rough hands working up my skin beneath my shirt, making me shiver from need. Before I even realize it, the distance between us has closed as my body has shifted closer towards him. I feel intoxicated but not from wine rather than the scent of him: a mix of testosterone and sandalwood.

Stephen sits comfortably with his arm resting on the back of the couch only inches from my face. "Would you like me to get you another glass?" he asks me sleepily-

I politely agree to a refill. He takes my glass and slowly exits in the direction of the kitchen. I'm sure he will be quick to locate the wine shelf and the opener on the counter. Silently smiling at the discovery of my new crush, I begin to play with strands of my hair. Could I convince him to stay the night? Or at least get his number before the storm subsides?

An audible thud awakens me from my daydream. It is soon followed by a loud groan.

"Stephen?" I call out worried.

I hurry into the kitchen to find the embarrassed-looking Stephen leaning both of his hands against the kitchen counter. There's a wine spill on the floor.

"I was a bit clumsy," he smiles at me apologetically despite his pain being evident. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"I just bumped my toe against something. I'll survive."

"Are you sure? You don't want a cold compress or anything?"

"No, no, don't you worry," he says but then glances down his chest. "Oh shit, I got it on the shirt as well." He hastily removes my stepfather's old shirt "Got any white wine?" Dumbfounded by the sudden sight of his impeccable yet hairy core muscles, I inexplicably manage to get my head together and start searching for the cheapest looking bottle of white from the wine shelf. I hand him a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and he staggers next to the kitchen sink and pours from it on the wine-stained shirt. "Baking soda?"

I speedily fetch him what he needs and come watch him rub the powder against the wet stain.

"I'm sure it's not irreplaceable..." I whisper in consolation, peeking from behind his shoulder

"No, it's coming off. See?" He steps aside to show the spot where only traces of the stain remain. "Put it in a washing machine and it should be as good as new."

He rinses the remains of the pasty baking soda and squeezes the excess water out, the muscles in his forearms tightening exquisitely. After being handed the damp shirt, I throw it inside a washing machine with other similarly coloured laundry and hit up a new program.

"Sorry about that," he repeats while leaning up against the kitchen doorframe.

"No, no. I'm sure my stepdad has a dozen of those. Should we get you another shirt?"

He looks at me innocently, squinting his eyelids in a teasing grin. "Do I have to?"

My heart skips a beat. His grin widens into a smile. After the initial shock, I get a grasp of myself and begin to laugh in a desperate attempt to mask the nervousness in my voice. He's just teasing me, I reassure myself. Two can play this game.

"Ah. I see what's going on. I see what you're playing at," I fold my arms across my chest and approach him, smiling, like a predator cunningly walking up to its prey.

"You do?" he says with mock innocence in his voice, batting his eyelashes at me wide- eyed. It makes me chuckle.

"Oh yes. You spilled that wine on yourself on purpose!"

"I did?" he crosses his arms on his chest, smiling.

"Yes! God, it's so obvious."

"What for?" he starts scratching his jaw lightly as if trying to solve a puzzle.

"To get undressed and show off your abs."

"Ah! And did it work?"

I'm slightly taken aback by his direct response. "Your abs are perfectly... adequate." "Awwww, straight through the heart." Dramatically he places his hand on his chest and pretends pain. Observing my amusement, he takes my hand and brushes it against his stomach. My muscles tighten. "You call this adequate?" he whispers.

I struggle to keep a straight face. "On second thought, they're actually slightly below average."

He lets my hand go and shakes his head disapprovingly. "Ok. Show me what you got then."

It takes effort of me not to visibly gulp as he faces me with this challenge. I'm perfectly aware my stomach is far from a six pack, as flat as it might be. Nevertheless, I shyly lift

up my shirt with one hand to reveal my tummy. He tilts his head to the side, as if to assess it from a better angle, studying it intently.

"Have you ever seen more perfect belly?" I prompt him sarcastically.

He opens his mouth as if to say something but then thinks better of it. Instead he grins and goes on to say: "No, I have not."

I shrug: "Told you so," and let my shirt fall back in place.

"No, no," he steps right in front of me and lifts my shirt back up again, "you can't just show off your perfect body to me only to snatch it away from me again."

"Oh no?"

"No."

His face is mere millimetres from mine. His brown eyes pierce into mine full of determination. I stare back into them, tense and relieved to know we are on the same wavelength.

With one hand he pulls me against his warm chest, grabs my face and kisses me. I answer his kiss with eagerness, wrapping my arms around his neck to press my lips tightly against his.

His hands go down my body, cupping my ass and gently giving it a squeeze. Through his trousers I can feel the bulging boner pressing against my lower abdomen. I suck his lips delighted.

Our lips part ways. He caresses my face with the back of his hand. Slightly breathless from all the passionate kissing, he finally asks: "Bedroom?" I only manage to nod in reply.

He takes my hand without saying another word and walks me into the dimly-lit bedroom. Immediately, he clasps me in his arms and hungrily kisses me, making it evident that his want and need were as eruptive as mine. He begins ripping my shirt off, only escaping my lips for the second of pulling it over my head, revealing my minimalistic black t-shirt bra.

Everything happens so rapidly; I'm overwhelmed by the vastness of him. His lips depart from mine to explore the length of my neck, as I struggle to unlatch by bra. Before I know it, my pants fall on the floor as his hands slips underneath the fabric of my briefs to fondle my butt cheeks. I pull his hair as his tongue zigzags down the sensitive flesh of my neck.

Slowly he corners me to the edge of the bed. He escapes my clasp as I fall on top of the bed, my breasts jiggling from the impact.

His facial expression is that of blissed awe. All that smug insolence is gone; what remains is his pure, loving desire, as if I was the most divine and beautiful thing he had ever seen or wanted.

He crawls on top of me. The tip of his nose brushes mine as he looks into my eyes, hiding me nothing. He has been waiting for this as much as I have: for the entirety of the last couple of hours if not even longer.

His lips glow the warmth of a loving home on mine. My fingers get lost between the strands of his hair. I tighten my grasp on him as if I was to lose him any second.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers like he was reading my thoughts. His steady gaze searches mine to reassure me. He kisses my lips softly and commences to kiss down the base of my neck, His hands search for mine, his fingers entwining with mine like ivy. His lips brush down my chest and discover my velvet nipples.

As I had imagined, his large tanned hands feel rough against my milky white skin. But while his touch is firm, the motion is so gentle... I close my eyes, gasping for air as his hot tongue teases the frozen cranberries crowning my breasts.

His hand goes up my thigh, tightening its grasp to keep me from squirming in my ecstasy. My nails bite into his back making him groan in a mixture of desire and pain. Teasingly he grinds his thick cock against my crotch through his trousers. As his hands find my wrists, he pins me down on the bed with my arms over my head pressing his feverish body on me.

"I just want to feel you..." I breathe in his ear.

"Yeah?" he whispers. But then with a snicker he goes on to say: "Well, if you insist."

He lets go of his grasp and rolls to side. He pulls the slacks down to his ankles, revealing that he is wearing nothing beneath except a raging boner, My mouth opens slightly as I see its moist bell end and begin to imagine having it throbbing between my lips.

He looks at me knowingly, fully aware of my wanting gaze. He kicks the slacks off of him and rolls himself back on top of me lowering himself down between my knees. Starting with an innocent peck on my knee, he kisses my legs, brushing his lips up my leg, tracing the muscles with his tongue. I don't know what makes me shudder more: the tickling sensation or the sight of his lips creeping closer to my cleanly shaven cunt.

The heat of his breath on my skin feels exquisite as the tip of his tongue works its way up my inner thigh. As I'm on the edge of fainting out of anticipation, his lips finally meet mine.

My swollen bright pink lips feel like they're about to explode as his hot tongue milks them of their essence. I'm rendered defenceless as his arms hold my hips in place. I can hardly hold back my moaning as his tongue locates my clit, rubbing against it gently.

As if thirsty for more, his demanding snake of a tongue demandingly flips my bud from side to side like milking it. He groans from desire.

The kisses on my cunt make me dizzy. Slowly he begins to push his tongue inside me, spreading the lips lightly. As his feverish tongue explores my depths, I feel like I might lose my mind. Masterfully he plays his tricks on my cunt, making me flow my juices into his needy mouth. Like a well after a monsoon rain, there is no end to the river running between my legs.

The rhythmic movement of his tongue about to push me into oblivion, he finally lifts his head up from my legs. His facial hair slightly wet from the waterworks, he crawls up back on top of me. His pink hard cock rests up against my pulsing clitoris as I catch my breath under his gaze.

"You are so goddamn beautiful," he murmurs looking deep into my arctic grey eyes as if to make the words sink in even deeper into my consciousness. "Your wandering innocent eyes, your thick veil of mahogany hair, the round breasts, the moles around your naval... It's all so wonderful."

I can't help but giggle at being showered with compliments. "You're not too bad yourself," I smile as I wrap my arms around his neck, biting his ear tenderly. Lifting his hand on my cheek, he turns my face to him and kisses me passionately.

The moist tip of his cock finds the throbbing lips of my cunt, spreading them apart softly. I moan into his mouth as his solid cock enters me, caving its way deeper into the ebbing tightness. His voice is thick with sex as my name escapes his lips.

Slowly he thrusts inside me, making me shudder and moan next to his ear as my hands clench around his shoulders. With the walls of my cunt tightening around his shaft, I can hear how the hot pool inside me wobbles.

His hand clenches tightly around my ponytail and with it he pulls my head towards his. I try to kiss his lips but he keeps my tightly in place, his eyes on my shivering needy lips. He smiles fiendishly and fucks me harder, making me gasp for air.

My eyesight grows hazy and I can barely distinguish his moaning from mine. I excitedly grasp his hair as the wonderful wave of heat builds up inside me. My voice nearly