She felt his hand push aside her hair. Then his breath on her nape. A dry tongue traced a line from the base of her neck into her hair line. Then a kiss. There, just beneath her hair. She winced just a little as her hair pulled taut upped the ante, that slow tongue circling. Wet. She leaned into it, her back hard against the ungiving wood of the chair. Another stroke of the tongue, from skin to hair, rewarded her.
Then, a pause. A click. A buzz rose in the still of the garden. There. Behind her right ear. She could feel it -- sense it -- before she heard it. A hand returned, fingers combing through her dark tresses, slipping through the silkiness, then stopping suddenly.
A fist balled up, pulled softly. Her hair lifted skyward, offered to the spring clouds. She smiled softly to herself.
Her nape exposed, her chin on her chest. Her eyes, unable to focus on her bare breasts, took in the yellow tulips rising between her feet. Her feet flat on the ground, her toes tingling in the still cool spring soil. Her hands gripping the arms of the chair.
A spasm of fear. Raw, chest-pounding fear cut through her. But not just fear, a deep unexpected thrill.
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Posted by Harriet.
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