Will you remember me?
she asked, her voice so soft coming from the dark of George's bedroom,
I think not, but I'll remember you and this night.
They had spoken for what seemed like an hour, George intent to lay her down. "There's no way I can forget you, Belladonna."
You forget my curse. Ah, can two people join, my dear, really join intimately as their eyes lock together and the veils are removed? Can they see each other as they really are in that moment, and still love each other truly? And as they love can they shudder, still looking, still shuddering until they must cry out their pleasure? Can such a thing be? Or must they forever close their eyes?
To shudder as their eyes lock! George the powerful bodybuilder sucked in his abs, turned on so bad that the one part where a man can't lie tried to push out of his briefs. "Belladonna, come to me."
Roll to the window, my dearest.
This was it: game, set, and match. He moved carefully and knew better than to say one single word, do one single thing that would destroy the moment. After rolling over, he lay very still, waiting for her to come.
Something drifted behind him, and then the ghost of his sheet gave the impression of lifting as a presence slid into its place. A bit of fear crept into him, but had no significance. He was so close now, so close. Girl or vapor, lover or figment, George no longer cared.
The nightstand clock, which he had scarcely noticed, acquired a precise tick, louder on the scale, and George had never felt so alive. He gazed at the window, and it appeared he could make out every detail around the sash, see every painted bump that had escaped his attention before. The French lace curtains were in need of cleaning and lay flimsy against the glass, open in places as a ruffled shell rib to the compromised stars in the sky. And far downstairs, past the mid-level floor, beyond the empty hall which had but three doors, he listened to the impossible: the grandfather's clock beating the seconds, hollow and slow in the depths of the house. There wasn't a chance he could hear it.
And yet he did.
George Hern wasn't sure when he changed his mind about the girl. He was less certain when she came to his bed. She was the perception of an entity first, then a growing substance with the consistency of yielding flesh. This was the flesh of a sensuous woman who, moment by moment, formed a soft hand on the muscle of his arm, imprinting itself as a tender mold to remember the feel of him forever. Before her hand finished its caress, her body began to grow, firm and yet soft as only a woman can be soft, slow to fill and warm to the touch, cuddling deliciously behind him, her breasts rising into the skin of his back. And with their rise came tender areolas, larger than the size of silver dollars, points of delight budded over each. To George they were bigger than raisins but smaller than grapes, and the nipples were ready to be sucked past his teeth while the remainder of her beauty bloomed to its form. All were pressed to his person, skin and thigh, breast and bone, a woman still as if she were no more than a doll, but her figure built small and fine.
The contour of the mattress began to alter, shifting ever so slightly as he groaned deep within his throat, the mattress dipping gently though the couple didn't move, dipping gently with the knowledge of her weight. George heard the air taken as a temperate murmur, her chest expanding the way men love it. Her breath quickened until it was regular and even, sure without the hint of loss, continuing fresh as if it had ever been so. And she was a woman alive for the ache of a man, having the use of her legs that wished but to clutch and a body meant for pleasure. Her hand squeezed a trifle as she began to explore. She was not meager with her gifts as she filled her lungs with the sweetness of the air. Her breasts flattened to his back, so firm without a bra that he was barely aware of her strong tummy pushing, pushing. Her lips were near enough to suggest she meant to kiss him. He was certain she would as he felt a humid draft delicately lick the hairs on the nape of his neck.
A tingle ran down George's spine to the tip of his sex, and there the quiver loitered.
Do you like that, my dear?
she asked, knowing and low. Her hand very lightly, very lovingly brushed down the ripple of his arm. Where the hair thickened she lingered as though a fascinating treasure had been found, and she swirled her fingers over the fine curls, the hairs apparently moving by themselves since her hand could not be seen.
Oh George.
It was her turn to groan.
You feel so
