The storm.
The light fades from blue to grey to black over the lake. All but the closest trees have been invisible all day as the blizzard turns the world into a light-grey blur. Now, as the wind continues to batter the isolated century home they share, the world shrinks to nothing but their quiet living space. To the quiet living room.
The pen scratches across the page. Stops. Hesitates. Drags a frustrated black line through what came before, rewriting history. Another attempt. Another pause, a tight exhale—the page is crushed in ink-stained fingers and tossed to the floor. The sheet joins its kin, scattered around the writer’s feet like autumn leaves. She glares at the blank, mocking page before her; at the ink staining her fingers—a galling reminder of every line that won’t breathe for her; of the truth the story refuses to reveal.
On the rug before the crackling fire, her lover reads in silence. A forest green blanket beneath, a red minky one draped over her shoulders—cast in a golden glow that makes the writer’s heart ache with love. She peeks over the pages from time to time, eyes full of the soft, steady warmth the writer has come to need more than air itself.
She tries again. The words will come; she just needs to try again. The words don’t come; the fury inside outstrips the storm outside. She crumples another ruined page, then looks again at her lover—the steady one, by the fire. Quiet. Supportive. Patient.
Calm.
In the storm.
The red blanket slips from her shoulders, lips parting in a wordless welcome. She rises, setting aside her useless papers and her inconstant pen. Ink-stained fingers clench unconsciously, her breath trembling as she crosses the room—answering her wife’s silent call. The distance is small, but each step quickens, driven by need and frustration. The eye of her storm turns, the red blanket falling away to reveal only warm, pale skin. The writer falls to her knees. Supplication.
She places her hands on either side of hips she delights in kissing—hips that have inspired her writing for years. Her lover, her wife, responds by hooking thumbs into the waistband of her tights, pushing them down as far as she can. A flurry of movement, and suddenly she’s sitting in her partner’s lap. Her thighs hug her inspiration’s waist, hungry mouth meeting waiting lips in a grounding kiss as unblemished fingers settle to guide the writer’s hips.
The writer makes a quiet, wordless sound of gratitude and need. Gratitude for her love, need for her body. They kiss again, slower, deeper, both moaning softly into the other as their tongues circle and curl and explore. As they part, both are a little surprised at the intensity, at the way she bites the lower lip of her partner. A quiet giggle follows, then smooth, clean fingers with perfectly manicured nails move down over the writer’s belly, through her wiry curls, and over her sex. Already warm. Already eager. The steady one giggles again at the sharp intake of breath and the almost animal way the writer responds, grinding and bearing down with surprising force.
The other hand moves to her hip. The writer’s fingers are always ink-stained, but her hip bears its own ink: two quills shaped into a heart. The muse loves to touch it; loves to kiss it; sometimes just looks at it in the early morning light while the writer sleeps. Now she presses a thumb hard against it and guides her love forward, back, forward again, back again, each cycle a little faster, grinding a little harder against those fingers now deep inside.
The writer’s gasps and sighs are so soft they are almost lost in the sounds of the fireplace and the storm outside. She swallows, parts her lips, and runs her tongue over bottom then top. Her soulful hazel eyes are locked on the reader’s green ones. She rides harder, faster. Her breasts bounce gently with each thrust. She steadies herself with both hands on her lover’s shoulders.
The reader’s hand leaves her hip, her fingers a feather-light touch over the writer’s waist, up her back, beneath her arms. She traces the shape of the writer’s glistening lips, smiling as she catches a glimpse of that wonderful tongue in the firelight. She lifts her chin and stretches her neck again, offering herself, and the writer claims her again. The kiss isn’t slow, nor gentle this time. The kiss is white-hot in its intensity, full of desperate urgency. The muse’s free hand moves down, over the writer’s clavicle and then claims the full, perfect swell of a breast. When she pinches the nipple firmly and gives it a slight twist, the response is immediate and satisfying!
The writer tenses, all of her, the pair of fingers inside her are squeezed and flooded with warmth. The writer’s shuddering, trembling gasps, sobs, giggles, they fill the quiet space with pure joy. The muse holds her—firm but gentle, knowing just how the writer likes to be embraced during these moments. The moments when there’s nothing but warmth and love and the afterglow of intense sex and the anticipation of more to come. When the last of her climax recedes—a wave pulling back from the beach, leaving everything fresh and new—the reader guides her onto the floor, in the middle of the green blanket. She pulls the red one over both of them and snuggles into a honeymoon hug.
Calm.
