Her lips tasted of cinnamon.
That's what he would remember in the long years that followed their parting. Not cinnamon sweetened by cloying sugar, but the true spice that could make a man draw a deep breath and taste the aromatic oils with the back of his throat and feel the burn in his face.
He never knew why her lips tasted of such. Probably a lipstick or lip balm or some other commonplace way to add favor to a kiss. He never asked. He would wonder later, but it would all be part of her glamour, the way she could glide quietly into a room and all there would focus on her, the way she could slip out of her clothes as if she moved to slow music, and the way she could look at him and make the most banal comment infused with sexual intensity.
When he first bit her bare body, he remembered being surprised her skin didn't taste of cinnamon, but the passion of their heat soon consumed all other thoughts. When he would look back -- when he was on trial and when he was in prison after that -- he would remember those moments on that bed with the crimson sheets and he would taste cinnamon. Even when he knew the truth, he remained her chattel.
So it's no wonder that when she asked him to betray everything he held sacred, he never hesitated. Not even for a heartbeat.
From Red Hot Sinner Man. Copyright 2012 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved.
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3 comments:
I see Hilda is still with you.
Hmm. I hadn't read Hilda when I wrote this several years ago, but perhaps her spirit was already in the ether, just waiting for you to pin her down on paper.
Maybe?
This really captures your attention. Love it. When I get time, I'm going to have to read some of your work. What I've seen is very, very good. Keep it coming. I would love to finish reading this story. Is the book 51313 Harbor Street? I'm intrigued.
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