third man girl
New Member
[Dedicated from The Writer to The Poet]
The Room
He stood at the door of the room and lifted his knuckles to the wood. He hesitated, listening. He dropped his hand to the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open in one smooth movement. The light entered the room as he did, but he chased it back out with a soft click. A skylight overhead allowed a small patch of filtered sunlight to pattern the floor. He detected her presence near the back wall of the room, and he tried to smile, to put her at ease, but his smile wouldn’t come. He asked her, twice, to step into the light.
She came at his second request, when he offered his hand towards her. And, when she accepted, he studied her hand first before he lifted his eyes. The bones of her wrist were fine, delicate, and her fingers were longer than he had imagined. Her eyes, when he met them, were a deeper green. Her hair was dark, and the light was too faint to show its true colour; it dropped softly to her shoulder where it flicked slightly outwards. He reached, with his free hand, to touch her fringe, to push it back from her forehead, but she flinched and her hand tensed. He stepped closer, and she stood this time and allowed him to tilt her chin.
They gazed at each other for a long moment, and he absorbed the image in front of him, replacing, quickly, mistakes that his mind had made. Her eyebrows, dark, gently arched; her cheekbones, high; her skin pale, too pale, as if she had hidden from sunlight during the long winter months. But her lips were full and warm when he placed his mouth on hers. And the kiss reassured him.
“We could have had a room with music,” he said.
“Listen to the silence,” she answered. And the silence became her heart beating with his. And a murmur as their lips touched. And a gasp. And a snap of a strap, a whisper of apology, a tug of a zip, a swish as their clothes fell to the floor.
“We could have had a room with more light,” he said.
“See with your fingertips,” she answered. And he felt the round bones of her shoulders. And the curve inward to her waist, and outward over her hips. He moved to gaze upon her breasts, but she pulled him closer. “See with your skin.” And their bodies rubbed gently, and he felt the push of her breasts, and the dance of her nipples on his chest, and the warmth of her thighs against his.
“We could have had wine,” he said.
“Taste my lips,” she answered. And he kissed her again, and parted her lips, and penetrated with his tongue. And his tongue withdrew, and traced downward, down her throat, along her arm, to her wrist. And he knelt and tasted the scent of her. And she knelt too, and she smiled with a promise, and lowered her head.
Third Man Girl
The Room
He stood at the door of the room and lifted his knuckles to the wood. He hesitated, listening. He dropped his hand to the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open in one smooth movement. The light entered the room as he did, but he chased it back out with a soft click. A skylight overhead allowed a small patch of filtered sunlight to pattern the floor. He detected her presence near the back wall of the room, and he tried to smile, to put her at ease, but his smile wouldn’t come. He asked her, twice, to step into the light.
She came at his second request, when he offered his hand towards her. And, when she accepted, he studied her hand first before he lifted his eyes. The bones of her wrist were fine, delicate, and her fingers were longer than he had imagined. Her eyes, when he met them, were a deeper green. Her hair was dark, and the light was too faint to show its true colour; it dropped softly to her shoulder where it flicked slightly outwards. He reached, with his free hand, to touch her fringe, to push it back from her forehead, but she flinched and her hand tensed. He stepped closer, and she stood this time and allowed him to tilt her chin.
They gazed at each other for a long moment, and he absorbed the image in front of him, replacing, quickly, mistakes that his mind had made. Her eyebrows, dark, gently arched; her cheekbones, high; her skin pale, too pale, as if she had hidden from sunlight during the long winter months. But her lips were full and warm when he placed his mouth on hers. And the kiss reassured him.
“We could have had a room with music,” he said.
“Listen to the silence,” she answered. And the silence became her heart beating with his. And a murmur as their lips touched. And a gasp. And a snap of a strap, a whisper of apology, a tug of a zip, a swish as their clothes fell to the floor.
“We could have had a room with more light,” he said.
“See with your fingertips,” she answered. And he felt the round bones of her shoulders. And the curve inward to her waist, and outward over her hips. He moved to gaze upon her breasts, but she pulled him closer. “See with your skin.” And their bodies rubbed gently, and he felt the push of her breasts, and the dance of her nipples on his chest, and the warmth of her thighs against his.
“We could have had wine,” he said.
“Taste my lips,” she answered. And he kissed her again, and parted her lips, and penetrated with his tongue. And his tongue withdrew, and traced downward, down her throat, along her arm, to her wrist. And he knelt and tasted the scent of her. And she knelt too, and she smiled with a promise, and lowered her head.
Third Man Girl
