The Call

window_sunset_by_macetool-d35zpfvSultry, shimmering, slanted low, sol banks its blaze, retreats. She gazes blind to waning rays and idly flicks her hand past pale organza curtains.  Feather light they waft as waves, undulating, flowing in shadows lifting, shifting, melting to gold.

Wistful, she pauses, stroking a finger, eyes lit in silent plea: seal my secrets within thy fold for I am adrift, in pain. Hunger gnaws her belly as gentian haze sweeps a mantle, soft and slow, o’er her weary soul.

Aching yearnings mingle and mix and meld, roiling into madness, uncertainty. She thought he might …

Sweet susurrations, bell tones jar and jangle, throbbing beats, lightheaded she grasps her lifeline. Murmurs: deep, throaty, hesitant. Breathless sighs beat back the fear, racing, chasing, air alive with promise.

He pauses, would she …?

She pauses, oh yes …

xGvL3She loves the night, cooling to chocolatey silk, melting, pinpricks ablaze to fade to teasing haze, slithering, soundless screams of joy, ease down, ease down, sweet slumber sequesters her senses … adrift, all is still.

About Nya Rawlyns

Nya Rawlyns doesn’t write typical romance. She writes emotion as a contact sport, rough and often raw. It need not be pleasant, heart-warming or forever after. What she seeks is what lies beneath—a dance of extremes, the intersect of need and desire, and the compromises we make when pain and pleasure become indistinguishable. ***** She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. ***** When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or three pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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