Hidden Moments
Hidden Moments
Pairing: addie/callie
Disclaimers: I do not own these two lovely women….if only…
Authors note: this was originally a very different story, but i kinda got side traked and hence this was born.. And also....reviews are love..
Prologue:
A great writer once wrote that we leave a little bit of ourselves behind in any place we leave. I leave my entire self behind this time. I think it was De Maurier. She’s still there, not De Maurier of course, sleeping soundly beneath rumpled sheets I wish to lay beneath again with her.
Sheets that smell of lavender and feel like silk. Yet don not, and surely cannot smell as sweet nor feel as soft as her skin. Still I have slipped from beneath the covers, and silently out of her arms, dressed, rearranged my hair.
Now, standing with my hand upon the cold hard door handle I cannot tear my eyes from her sleeping form. Her elegant breasts rise and fall gently, slowly. She looks so peaceful in sleep, open and angelic, a juxtaposition of her waking persona.
I’ve left many times, but this time is the hardest, for I know it must be the last. I can no longer take the sweet torment of stolen moments, and secret kisses, nor could I bear the weight of discovery. Though either would be preferable to the pain and grief that I feel in the simple action of leaving the room. Anything would be more enjoyable than the great loss I feel, I realise I shall always feel if this was indeed our last night together.
In sleep she sighs softly and shifts slightly. I turn, as if on cue, open the door and leave, my last sight of her a momentary flash out of the corner of my eye.
TBC
Pairing: addie/callie
Disclaimers: I do not own these two lovely women….if only…
Authors note: this was originally a very different story, but i kinda got side traked and hence this was born.. And also....reviews are love..
Prologue:
A great writer once wrote that we leave a little bit of ourselves behind in any place we leave. I leave my entire self behind this time. I think it was De Maurier. She’s still there, not De Maurier of course, sleeping soundly beneath rumpled sheets I wish to lay beneath again with her.
Sheets that smell of lavender and feel like silk. Yet don not, and surely cannot smell as sweet nor feel as soft as her skin. Still I have slipped from beneath the covers, and silently out of her arms, dressed, rearranged my hair.
Now, standing with my hand upon the cold hard door handle I cannot tear my eyes from her sleeping form. Her elegant breasts rise and fall gently, slowly. She looks so peaceful in sleep, open and angelic, a juxtaposition of her waking persona.
I’ve left many times, but this time is the hardest, for I know it must be the last. I can no longer take the sweet torment of stolen moments, and secret kisses, nor could I bear the weight of discovery. Though either would be preferable to the pain and grief that I feel in the simple action of leaving the room. Anything would be more enjoyable than the great loss I feel, I realise I shall always feel if this was indeed our last night together.
In sleep she sighs softly and shifts slightly. I turn, as if on cue, open the door and leave, my last sight of her a momentary flash out of the corner of my eye.
TBC