Evilangel
Sheena Shaw Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, suspended embers. Her fingers, slick with the cool juice of the freshly carved gourd, traced the intricate patterns she had etched into its thick, orange skin, the sharp, earthy scent filling her nostrils. A bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of her spine, disappearing beneath the waistband of her simple cotton dress. The rich, loamy aroma of the autumnal harvest mingled with the faint, musky perfume of her own arousal, a heady combination that made her head feel light. She could feel the weight of his gaze upon her, a palpable heat that seemed to caress the nape of her neck and the exposed skin of her shoulders. Every movement was a deliberate, languid performance, the soft, wet sound of her hands working the pulp a private rhythm in the quiet room. The anticipation was a physical presence, thick and sweet as honey, coiling low in her belly with a delicious, aching tension. His quiet, sharp intake of breath from across the room was the only applause she needed, a silent testament to the spell she was weaving. In that suspended moment, the world narrowed to the vibrant orange sphere, the slickness on her skin, and the promise of his touch, a harvest ripe for the taking.
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