(no subject)
That last pomegranate martini had probably been a mistake.
But at the moment regret was the furthest thing from her mind. How could she spare the room for that when his hand was slipping beneath her coat, pushing back fabric to press skin to skin. When his teeth snagged the edge of her lip as his tongue touched hers. When the electricity sizzled in the cramped quarters of the taxi and his stubbled cheek rasped hers. She became wax in his hands, melted in the heat of his fire, was reshaped into something more daring and wild.
There had been a time when she had run barefoot through grass, flower petals caught in her curls, dizzy with the bee-hum of spring and kissed by the sun. But now she knew how intoxicating darkness could be, the pleasures that could only be had in shadows and smoky nightclubs and abandoned alleys.
She knew the story of the woman who found knowledge in an apple; but she had found it in a pomegranate and a kiss.