Authors: Beatrice Donahue

The Blue Hour (6 page)

BOOK: The Blue Hour

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Memories of my picture strewn across her bed flutter like petals, making me bold enough to draw up my knees and splay them wide for her.

“Please.”

Her hair falls around her face as she places another kiss just above the curling hair. I push my legs together, not because I don’t want her there, but because I do. Her hand brushes my belly, and I know she’s teasing me. I groan again, incoherent. My sex is engorged, already slick, and burning for her like my lips have done since her first kiss.

And then she places her tongue between my folds.

I choke out a sob. My eyes are wet. My body is wet, warmed by her tongue. I squeeze my eyes tight shut and make fists in the sheets; she moves and I reach for her, smoothing her hair, pushing her to me. Her own hand finds its way from my belly into mine; she clasps it while she kisses, licks, sucks me there. I grip her hand and writhe, moan, love. I rise and fall under her, never wanting this to stop. When she withdraws I clench my teeth and sigh, bereft. Her lips blaze a trail back up my body, then plant on my mouth. I taste myself on her, and moan.

“Eve.”

She stares down, formidable, and a finger trails over my cheek, along my throat.

I shiver, and tell her. “I want you to feel... pleasure. Like this.”

I no longer need her to show me, because I know. Her eyes are liquid, her smile bold. Gripping my thigh with hers, she grinds against me, her fingers at my breasts, swiftly replaced by her lips, murmuring to me.

“We have time. My pleasure is watching you, seeing you come undone.”

With that, she takes my whole breast deep into her mouth, grey eyes open, staring into mine. I gasp as her hand returns to my sex, covering it entirely with a warm palm until I cry out, then circling the exact point of my pleasure with her thumb while her fingers slip back inside. Overcome, I close my eyes.

As the bright dots of light burst behind my lids, I feel her tremble too. Her legs are clamped around mine, and I’m suddenly enveloped in the iris and rose of her arms, and she raises her face. She kisses my lips and thrusts inside me until I am moving at her pace, chanting her name into her mouth and finally, finally, we begin to fall together into darkness, deep and blue. We are together in the moment of freedom, when she takes hold of my face again and I open my eyes to look into her.

She has seen me since that first night. Here, in her big white bed drenched beneath us, I know she has freed some part of me. As we shudder against each other I see her, too.

Some time before the dawn, I open my eyes. Our legs are twined, a rhizome beneath the eiderdown. I have no way of knowing how this story will unfold, but I have hope, thanks to Eve. For a long time I am still, looking out at the dim blue light hanging over the waves. My glasses lie abandoned before the easel upstairs, but one star shines bright enough even for me to see.

With the first glimmers of gold, I feel her stir behind me, and her warm thigh moves to press between mine. As I rock back against her in the bed, sighing, she lifts the hair from my neck and kisses me fully awake.

THE END

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About the author

Beatrice Donahue is a poet at heart.
The Blue Hour
marks her first foray into the world of short stories. If you follow the quiet hum of eccentricity, you will usually find her at home in Southwest England, except when she is not. An avid reader who never judges a book by its cover, Beatrice enjoys exploring and expressing aspects of human sexuality through her own writing.

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