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Saturday, January 16, 2010

New Year's Eve by Denyse Bridger

Christmas had been awful, lonely and terrifying to the woman who paced a spacious and romantic chalet meant for lovers. He’d had obligations, children and friends who had long been priorities. Claire did understand. At least that’s what she insisted to herself when she wanted to erupt into tears, or fury. Somehow, neither emotion held for long, and she was left with the same empty chill of isolation.

It had been a week since she’d spoken to him for more than a few minutes. He’d called from his ex-wife’s house, and the conversation had been brief. The sounds of happy children and family warmth had reached across the miles to freeze her heart into a block of ice. He’d promised her he’d be at the ski lodge for New Year’s Eve and would call her as soon as possible. She’d arrived a day early, but the expected phone call had never come. It was now late into the evening of the last day of the year.

She strolled over to the Christmas tree, the glittering bursts of cheerful colors blurred as tears flooded her eyes again. She dropped to her knees and fingered the unwrapped presents that waited for his arrival. She hadn’t opened her gifts, they too awaited his presence. She wanted to share this holiday ritual with him, to turn back time and make this night Christmas Eve.

She decided to have the wine herself, and once she was settled comfortably before the blaze, she opened the bottle and poured the bubbling wine into the crystal flute. A few drops spilled onto the creamy, sheer silk of her gown and she watched in detached fascination as her skin grew visible through the opaque material. With an indifferent shrug, she placed the bottle within easy reach and sipped the chilled champagne.

When the clock chimed eleven-thirty, she was beyond caring that she was drunk and alone. Two empty bottles attested her condition, tears flowed freely and unchecked from red-rimmed eyes. The candles had burned down to the holders, and only the fire, replenished periodically, cast heat and light back into the still room. The CD player had long ago gone silent, and she no longer felt able to walk the distance required to start the machine again.

She picked up the last glass of champagne and stared at the bubbly clear liquid. Her hand trembled slightly and she sniffled softly. When she lifted her hand to wipe aside more tears, she ended up dumping the wine over herself. The shock of the cold champagne made her gasp loudly, and she put the glass on the floor beside her then looked down at the ruined gown.

In the soft glow of firelight she saw the spreading wash of wine making the silk transparent. Her breasts were outlined clearly, nipples erect in response to the cold touch of wine. She smiled slightly and tugged at the stringy strap of her gown, then peeled it away from her body. Her skin was flushed with too much wine, and she felt the familiar ache of longing for his touch fill her with pain. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the cushions; her hands rose and caressed the fullness of her breasts, rolled the firm tips of her nipples between her fingers. The sensation was arousing, especially when combined with the image of his mouth closing over the rosy tips, tongue teasing, teeth gently tugging.

“Damn you...”

The whisper was lost in the empty room. Her hands glided slowly over her body as her mind filled with him, the feel of his hands, the hard length of his body next to hers. Her thighs parted and she pulled the gown up around her waist. She hesitated, the pound of her heartbeat a furious, loud timpani in her ears. Past that, she thought she heard another sound, the thud of a step outside the cabin. The door was locked, and in the seconds of silence that followed there was no other murmur.

She groaned softly, and a new flare of pain reminded her that a new year was only minutes away, and the only lover she had to share the night with was her vivid memory of him. Her body shuddered, roused and hungry, and she slid her fingers into the throbbing wetness between her thighs. Her hand pressed tightly against the slick folds, created a steady, rapid rhythm that her hips flowed into. Her free hand fondled her breasts, squeezed aching nipples, then moved to join the other as she fought for release.

She cried out in fear and frustration seconds later when her hands were dragged away from their erotic play. Her eyes flew open and she choked on a gasp as dark eyes, alive with fire, bored into her. She felt the icy air of the night that still clung to him, and his lips were cold when they descended to claim hers. As his tongue entwined with hers, ravaged the heat of her mouth, he was pulling at his clothes.

His mouth moved to her throat and she moaned loudly when the hard length of him suddenly filled her. Her fingers knotted in the material of his t-shirt and her hips thrust upward to meet his savage, urgent rhythm. Her legs wrapped around his and pushed his jeans further down long legs. He rode her harder, his body aroused and selfish with lust. With a low groan he pulled free of her for a moment, long enough to grasp her ankles and place them against his shoulders. He leaned into her, and she opened to him, eagerly accepted the glistening length of his arousal as he buried himself inside her again.

It was over in minutes, a fierce blistering storm of passion that left them choking for breath and trembling violently. A brisk, icy wash of air swirled over them and she arched back to look toward the door. Even with the distortion of the position she could see the heavy wooden panel swung inward.

“You could have closed the door,” she whispered thickly.


About the author: Canadian born and bred, and a lifelong dreamer, I began writing at an early age and can’t recall a time when I wasn’t creating in some artistic form. My life has had several on-going love affairs that shape much of what I write, the American West, Victorian England, cowboys, a passion for pirates, Greek Gods, and Ancient Egypt. The other endless love affair in my life is Italia and all its magic, beauty, and dazzling culture. That passion spills into all aspects of my life. Website: http://www.denysebridger.com Blog: http://fantasy-pages.blogspot.com

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