Another hawte writing exercise

Filed in Gather Writing Essential by on September 24, 2011 0 Comments


A course I’m taking on writing sexual tension in fiction.

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The river was still, the water motionless and the sun was directly overhead, so that the only sound Travis heard was the cicada’s droning.


A tingle began to creep  up the back of his neck, slowly, two fingers at a time,  and instinctively, he reached behind his neck to slap the fly that had landed on the back of his neck.

No fly.

 

His awareness heightened as he realized that it was only the hair on the back of his head that was standing on end. But he must be vigilant.


He stood erect and held his head still, but darted his eyes first left, then right, then as he reached into his holster for his gun, a shape came into view.

 

He took a deep breath as he waited to see what was coming down the river. He held his breath.


A whiff of lily pierced his nostrils. Damn.


He lowered his gun and slumped. Maeve.


There she was on the white deck of the gleaming riverboat, standing in a sheer ivory gown, with nothing underneath, and her copper brown hair waving in the breeze.


He stared at her, his black eyes thick and hot as he drilled into her luminous, green eyes.


He shifted his pelvis. Damn. He’d already lost the fight before it had even begun.


She was staring back at him. The cicadas had stopped, and everything was silent.


It was as if the space between them, the 100 feet across the river, had begun to close in, leaving only inches between them.

 

Travis’ breathing matched Maeve’s. As her breasts rose and fell, so did his chest.


As he watched her mouth move, he wanted to brush the lock of copper brown hair that was half shading her green eyes, hiding her true intent.


He wanted to  whisper in her ear to hear her gasp as he drew his tongue around her lobe, winding a tendril of her hair between his fingers, playing with her soft curls.


He would then draw a line down the side of her neck and press the indentation in her neck, as he grazed her breast, then would draw the line down her arm, all the way to her hands and fingertips, and then he’d kiss the tips of her fingertips, one by one, and watch as she’d arch her back and moan.


The wind picked up and her dress lifted, showing her smooth, white, bare leg.

 

He shifted his pelvis. A gurgling noise escaped his throat.

 

He saw that her eyes were watching his, matching his eyes glance for glance, so that where his eyes traveled, so did hers.

 

He trailed his eyes all the way up from her naked toes on the deck of the riverboat, up her bare calves and knees that the fluttering  gown teased, up to the thighs  he craved to press his palms into.

 

He trailed his eyes  up her thighs and around her hips, then around her inner thighs to her nest that was only partially hidden by the gown.


She shifted her pelvis.  Her breathing seemed to almost stop. Her lips parted. And her cheeks deepened.

 

Steam rose from his skin. He could smell the salt on his own skin.

 

He’d yank down the shoulders of her gown, then swoop down between her breasts, when he’d cup them between his hands, and then draw a line between his breasts with his tongue.

 

Again he shifted his pelvis.


What he was imagining was as if it were some sort of telepathy, because as she followed his eyes, she then lowered here eyelids, parted her mouth and  lowered the shoulders of her gown, inch by inch, her nipples pink, hard and wanting, until her breasts were in plain sight.

 

He groaned.

 

He felt her breath on his lips, their fruity scent teasing him.


He moved closer to her so that his lips were close enough to graze hers, and as he did so, he felt her ribcage swell and fall under his.

 

He pressed himself even closer to her, so that their bodies were almost as one,  then he grazed her neck with his chin before he touched her lips, waiting for a signal from her.


She arched her back under him and lengthened her neck, then opened her mouth, so that his tongue swooped in and explored the fleshy crevices of her cheeks, their sweet taste testing his limits.

 

He yanked down her gown to her naval and pressed his palm into her belly button, rhythmically, as he thrust his tongue into her mouth, first demanding, then succumbing to her return demand, as she sucked his tongue, as she yelped.


Beads of salty perspiration formed along his brow, and she licked them, then drew circles around his eyes with her fingertips.

 

His skin burned from her touch and her deep scent filled his nostrils.

 

She looked at him. He craved to have all of her. He wanted to press himself into her pink bits and to fill her space in rhythmic yearning.


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About the Author ()

An article of mine, 'On Marriage, Life, Death and Remarriage' was published in "Blended Families (Social Issues Firsthand) by Greenhouse Press." An article of mine was referenced in this book: "Margaret Atwood: a reference guide" by Judith McComb

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