Strong, Silent Type
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by Gregory L. Norris
Category: Erotica/Erotic Romance
Description: Aspiring writer Tabitha Lawford and her emerald-eyed muse have a falling out, right when she thinks their relationship couldn't be better or more passionate. All attempts to woo him back fail and, as a last resort, Tabi signs them both up for a weekend of couple's therapy--at a writer's retreat held at a remote mountain lodge. Determined they'll either end their relationship completely or she'll get him to loosen his tight lips and stop the silent treatment, Tabi adds a bit of playful experimentation to spice up their stalled love life: writing on an antique Underwood typewriter instead of her laptop. Tabi has given up the ghost--but can she win him back?
eBook Publisher: Phaze, 2009
eBookwise Release Date: January 2010
1 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [64 KB]
Reading time: 34-47 min.
The door to the cottage banged open. The first rain of autumn was falling outside, just beyond the threshold. A cool breeze swept into the house, carrying his scent to her: raindrops on bare skin, a hint of the soap he'd washed with that morning, the clean, piney musk of his sweat.
He stood in the doorway, the wood he'd gathered for the fire abandoned somewhere among the weave of branches, which were beginning to show a trace of fiery color around the edges. He was wet from the downpour, the dark thatch of his hair dripping, his clothes soaked through. His open cotton shirt, unbuttoned to the taut ridges of his stomach muscles, was plastered to his flesh. The line of coarse hair cutting him down the center of his chest glistened. So wet...
And so was she, merely at his image. His eyes, a vibrant green, glowed through the storm's palette of gray tones. Those magnificent twin emeralds pinned her in their sights, undressed her, and gently massaged her most-sensitive flesh with invisible strokes
She saw he was standing hard at the door, his cock a prominent bas-relief tenting his damp jeans. One enormous bare foot breached the threshold. She heard herself gasp. He was poised to penetrate the house. So handsome, painfully so, she thought, he had transcended mere humanity. He was a force of nature, some long-forgotten Pagan forest god, desperate to be worshipped, hungry for sacrifice. And he'd come to her in search of these tributes...
Tabi's fingers flew across the laptop's keyboard. She didn't realize she'd stopped blinking until her eyes began to water and sting, or that she'd ceased breathing until the last sip of air she'd taken started to boil in her lungs.
Words raced across the screen. Tabi tipped a glance at the blocks of black text hovering over white background. A misplaced comma, a paragraph needing to be indented, and a typo that had slammed a subject into a predicate--he licked--all tried to distract her.
Stop writing, go back and edit, Tabi...
Oh, the temptation! To just halt the flow of words, to backtrack and streamline what was already written instead of forging on, deeper into her novel. To ignore the spirits presently in control of her fingers, pulling on the literary equivalent of marionette strings. The words on the screen were powerful magic, a computerized spell no mortal should dare bring to completion.
He licked his lips...
She continued stroking keys, too consumed to fix the typo now, too excited to care about breathing or blinking, or the icy-hot pinpricks that teased her nipples beneath the light cotton shirt. She ignored her pussy, too, pressing against its prison of lace and denim. She was wet, like the woman in her novel, like the rain her hero had walked out of.
...as if tasting the air, seeking her on its sweetness. He hadn't shaved for at least two days; his tongue traveled in a maddeningly slow circle around his mouth, and the rough stubble surrounding those rain-kissed lips...
Tabi no longer felt the keys beneath her fingers. She was barely aware of their clicking cadence, the sound becoming that of distant castanets. A shiver teased the nape of her neck. She fought it, lost, and surrendered. As the chill tripped down her spine, other points across her body contrasted with blossoms of unbearable heat. Tabi's nipples stood noticeably erect from beneath her shirt. Until the shudder, she hadn't realized that she had unconsciously ground her hips forward and backward, humping the air with gentle rocking motions. But her pussy wasn't alone in being teased to the verge of climax. So was the rest of Tabitha Lawford: her nipples, her bare toes with their pretty pomegranate-red paint, her heart, her throat, her earlobes, and especially her fingertips. They tingled with a sensation that was almost as glorious as the one consuming her core. She was close, so very close.
"No, please, hold on," she whispered aloud to the empty apartment. Somewhere in the late night shadows, beyond the lamp's glow in the corner of the bedroom containing her writing desk, the refrigerator answered with a wheezing grunt. Outside, a car chugged down the road.
"Focus, Tabi, focus!"
She closed her eyes and was no longer in the clean yet drab, unremarkable one-bedroom rental with the builder-beige carpet and white walls, utilities not included. She stood inside the country cottage, facing him. Rain fell, playing melancholy music across the roof. There was an undercurrent in the tense, turbulent air, electricity building toward flashpoint.
He entered the house, and the house responded. The walls and lanterns and rich jewels of Depression glass in colors of ruby-red, cobalt-blue, and forest green--the latter, having nothing against the emerald of his eyes--shivered out of focus in concentric waves around him, as though the cottage had climaxed in delight at being invaded by his presence. Then the ripple passed, and she understood the shudder had originated within her, not the house...
Tabi exhaled. Shifting a fraction of an inch in her desk chair set off a cannonade of fireworks inside her. She bit back a moan, froze. Her fingertips slammed a line of letters into the text that looked more like a basic typing exercise than creative witchcraft or sorcery.
She could erase it later, unlock the noun and verb lashed in their passionate embrace, slay the commas, kick the paragraph in the seat, launching it to the proper indentation. But now, she needed to finish.
She needed him.