Hello there, readers! In this week’s piece, we have a snippet of something I might work on more at some point. For now, though, it works well (at least, in my opinion) as just a short story. I wanted to try something a little different than my standard fare, so I came up with this little piece that would fit into a romance story. Thank you for reading!
He came to me at night. His figure lingered beyond the glass pane of the front door. I took notice of his presence on my way from the kitchen, not but a few seconds before he knocked. Why didn’t he use the doorbell, I don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t want to wake anyone else in the house, and his solid rapping would be, at least in part, muffled by the thunder and rain. The cool breeze rushed his drenched allure into me as I opened the door. Black hair hung beyond his jaw, giving way to the short beard there. Tall, more than a whole head above me (though that really didn’t say much for someone nicknamed “Munchkin” by her older cousins). Even in the dim light, those green eyes shone like precious gems. He watched me, almost haunting in his gaze, and I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to. He was too mesmerizing, too subtly glamorous, too damn gorgeous.
“Would you like to come in?” I offered, doing my best to keep my voice stable under his look.
“Yes, please,” he responded, a husk to his voice that sent tingles through me.
He glided inside and I led him toward the parlor. The fireplace was alive there, bright and warm and perfect for reading one of my romance books. With outstretched arms I took hold of the back of his long gray coat and set it next to the fire.
“Would you like a towel or anything?” I asked. “You’re all soaked through.”
His lengthy frame flexed under his sodden shirt and pants, as if he drew in a deep breath for the first time after being submerged for nearly too long. He looked around for a moment, taking in the decorations salvaged from our old family cabin. Taxidermy heads of antlered woodland friends; landscape paintings of forests, lakes, and Colonial times; photographs of some of Dad’s biggest catches. Did he find familiarity on our walls? Did it remind him of his own home growing up? Or did it all seem so foreign to him. I wondered, then, what the Keeper of Marquardt Manor put on his walls to make the house a home.
“No, thank you,” that huskiness returned. His body, sculpted like a Roman masterpiece, turned until he faced me once more. “You are very kind, Miss Bentley.”
“Thank you, Mr. Perrison,” my shaky voice squeaked out.
His hand, such a beautifully crafted and strong thing, found my cheek. Though still wet from the rain, its warmth still cut through. His touch, gentle and sweet, brought even more of a blush to my face. My head swam in that delight, daring to buckle my knees and send me to the floor. Or, perhaps, into this arms.
“You can call me Dominc,” he whispered.
“You can call me Beverly,” I returned.
He lowered himself, craned down until his face was not even an inch from mine. Eyes closing, lips parted, he leaned in. Whether it was instinct playing with desire or some force flowing through me, I met him there. In the press I wondered what a group of butterflies was called. The thought got lost the moment it arose, washed away with a sensory overload of pure bliss. No one else I had ever kissed had this effect. No one else could silence my seemingly eternal internal monologue. No one else could make me melt like he could.
I don’t remember whose hands started it, but piece by piece our fingers clutched onto each other’s clothes until we lay bare before the fireplace. His body was hot and firm against my skin, yet remained gentle throughout. Every inch of his glory breathed life into me, as did I into him. We made it difficult for each other to keep quiet in our exchange of caregiving, our very souls aching to let our vocal cords sound off from the shared ecstasy.
The storm outside smoothed to a gentle midnight rain as we came to an end. Nestled between his body and the dying flames, it all seemed unreal. A chapter out of one of my books. Whether a dream or reality, it didn’t matter. His arms around me, his sweet little kisses on my neck and shoulders, the splendor of it all… would we ever have this again?
Tyler Gohde 