Famine #51: The Oldest Profession (WeWriWa)
Howdy, friends. Thanks for dropping by for another Weekend Writing Warriors eight sentences from Famine. We've seen Bartholomew be harsh, and we've seen him be tender. How about we give him a pleasant interlude this time? (Iona is what Seattle historically, and euphemistically, referred to as a seamstress.)
His fingers bumped over the boning, the silk and ribbons, caught and released the frills and lace that women thought made them alluring. “Très belle.” He pulled her body back against his, and her breath hitched.
Bartholomew wrapped his other arm around Iona and trailed his lips from her shoulder to her neck to her ear. She hesitated then permitted him to capture her lips and turn her to face him. His lips parted and his tongue encouraged hers open. Their tongues touched, stroked, but when she tried to speed his leisurely pace, he slowed her.
“Non, I wish to enjoy your pleasure,” he said against her lips, and she exhaled into his mouth.
See? I'm not always putting him through the wringer. (Okay, okay, just 99% of the time.)
Once again, I encourage you to check out the work of all the other writers who are participating in this week's WeWriWa hop.