Redolent with sex, fading perfume, and… wine? Ah, yes, the dark stain on the rug. The scents combined as she returned to their nest. In the moonlight, raven-wing lashes spread over his cheekbones, some dark curls plastered to his forehead where perspiration had stuck them and then dried. She eased around him, his skin soft as a blanket over firm muscles. She couldn’t resist the urge to run her fingers through those dark curls. His eyes lazily half-opened, and the world faded away. He tucked her against his chest, she was consumed by a love that could not be duplicated.
About the Creator
Delaney Howard
Writer of romantic suspense, and apparently fiction of other varieties too. Reader of all the words, theater nerd, liberal, teacher, wife, dog-mom, optimist. http://www.delaneyhowardwriter.com/
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More stories from Delaney Howard and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Ground Shaking
The ground twitched violently as the earthquake struck the city. Buildings swayed and toppled, sending clouds of dust and debris into the air. People screamed and ran willy-nilly in a panic to escape the collapsing structures. The sound of shattering glass and crashing concrete filled the air as the once-vibrant city was reduced to rubble in mere seconds. In the aftermath, survivors emerged from the wreckage, dazed and disoriented. The smell of smoke and death hung heavy as the extent of the disaster became clear. The earthquake had brought destruction and chaos, leaving a once-thriving metropolis in ruins and terror.
By Delaney Howardabout a year ago in Fiction
I Am a Prisoner who Dreams of Prisons
The dream always starts the same: I feel the cold bite of wind gnawing through clothes entirely inadequate to protect from the weather and I realize I am standing in line. Ahead of me and behind me are other inmates, identified by the burgundy scrubs we were issued upon arrival. I don't know where we're going.
By Kyle Cejka6 days ago in Fiction
Sleeping in the Rain
Rain, rain, rain - the rain fell like dull grey, leaden bullets, tearing through layers of the atmosphere before colliding with the pavement and exploding into clouds of stinging, wet shrapnel. Sandy watched the downpour wash away the city life and fake neon colors. She watched people scurrying in the streets like rats fleeing a predator, trying to stay out of the rain that washed their makeup and plastic smiles away, leaving behind only their naked, ugly selves. People hated the rain because it reminded them that not everything in the perfect little world they tried to build was beautiful and spotlessly clean. They hated it because it reminded them that their city rested on the bones of a different city, a different age, one that had been buried and forgotten. They hated it because the old men still remembered the bullets that had rained down on them from above, the gleaming mechanical eagles that had swooped down and preyed on an unwary mother, a weakened elder, a disobedient child, then disappeared again into the stormy gloom. The younger generations did not and would not remember the horrors that their parents and grandparents had gone through, they preferred to build a plastic city on their history, locking it forever under layers of shiny offices and blinding advertisements. The people hated the rain, and Sandy hated them.
By Daria Voynova7 days ago in Fiction
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