HNT: Thirteen

The sultry, seductive moan of the jazz trumpet winds its way into the cosy room as the muted lamp light casts its enveloping glow. Awaiting his arrival, she takes pleasure in the sensations of the here and now: the plush throw caressing her freshly bathed skin; the faint aroma of a favourite scent clinging to the curve of her neck; the soft lace tickling her hips; the delicate fingers drawing sensual circles on her bare flesh; the butterflies taking flight in and across her electrified body; the steady pulse beginning to thud out its addictive rhythm in her awakening sex.

Surrendering herself to the moment of solitude, she wonders if the demure yet wanton picture she has painted will please him, if the waiting gift will sate his hungry longings, if the familiar woman before him has retained something of her novelty, her mystery.

Snapping her back to the present, the trembled gasp from the doorway dissolves her uncertainty in an instant. Standing tall in the small threshold, a visible shudder rippling through his muscular body, his eyes are simultaneously thankful and greedy, his gaze travelling with a deliberate slowness, consuming every last detail of the scene, of the woman, of the feminine hands skimming the fair terrain, of the heated breath escaping her glistening mouth, of the aching thighs and hips and breasts all straining toward him and his touch.

And just as she can endure the distance between them no longer, he is beside her, shedding his outer fabric layer, joining her warmth, his hands meeting hers in their exploration, his lips lightly taking hold of her silky peaks, his tongue languidly tasting and savouring her own, his strength bearing down upon her fragility, his passion seeking out her velvety essence, their flesh fusing, melting, merging in a timeless lover’s embrace.

(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)