The silkiness of the sheets against my naked bum, softly caressing, rubbing against my warm skin. The scent of the lavender candles, their aroma mixed with a bland smokiness from the wick as it burns turning into ash that settles black against the purple scented wax, dripping, settling and hardening on the beautiful brass holders in my hotel room. 30 purple candles provide the only light, an orange glow, casting warm shadows, laying gently and illuminating everything in a decidedly sensual manner. I could see it, a memory in my mind’s eye, as I lay there, eyes shut, dark blindfold cast over my eyes, silently hoping that the crackling heat I could hear wasn’t the flames jumping from candles to curtains.
It’d be a bloody shame to die that way, CAUGHT IN THE FLAMES OF PASSION
, the headline would read. Her story as comical as it was tragic. A woman laying in bed, naked and throbbing, waiting, anticipating, then dead, all because the rules said she couldn’t open her eyes for anything. Not even fire!
Where was he? Was he there already? Had she missed his arrival as she was contemplating death by fire? Was he watching as she squeezed her trembling thighs trying to calm the throbbing button that was begging for release. No, she couldn’t have missed him, not with her other senses sharpened acutely by the lack of her site. He wasn’t here yet. Would he come? Was he even a he?!