“Will you stay the night?” she invited, already reaching for
the door latch.
“I would be honored,” he replied.
She stood before him without embarrassment or fear and
calmly removed her clothing. He stood patiently, admiring
her in the candle’s glow. She slid naked into the feather
bed and he quickly blew out the candles, removed his
clothing and slid into bed beside her. Everything seemed
to move so slowly. Each meandering caress, each furtive
whisper of passion. His kisses were gentle yet insistent and
she sensed his rising ardor. His hands moved delicately
over every part of her leaving nothing unexplored, nothing
unattended. With a sudden gasp, she was startled as, at the
moment of his entry, he bit her shoulder and burrowed
tightly up against her. But the sensation of the bite was
immediately lost in the shearing away of all else. The walls
seemed to shimmer and disappear. The blankets and
bedding seemed to fall away. It seemed that they floated,
interlocked, intertwined into each other. There was
nothing else; there could be nothing else but their passion.
It was a feeling as none she had ever known, and
weakened by it all; when it was over, she slept deeply.
When she awoke, she was alone, with only the lingering
pain of his bite to prove it had not been a dream.
She passed through the next day as if in a cloud. By day’s
end, she had nearly convinced herself that it had not
happened. Until the moment when the door once more
opened and the cold evening wind swirled. They sat and
talked as before, the evening disappeared, and the stairway
to passion beckoned. It was as before only more intense,
because now there were expectations brought on by
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