The Crystal Girl
by Rose B. Thorny © 2007

Perhaps this time. Perhaps the thousand other times would be sucked into oblivion like so much murky bath water and this time would be real.

His lips fluttered, lit on her eyelids, a butterfly on a warm summer breeze.

She felt hot breath against her cheek, heard urgent, rasping sighs in her ear, inhaled his scent.

He kissed her mouth, explored the moist depths with an insistent tongue. He traced the line of her pulsing throat, the smooth curve of her shoulder, the soft slope of her hip with restless, burning fingers; slid his hand between her legs, caressed the shaven lips.

She was wet, all sensation, all anticipation.

He probed her throbbing, humid, secret space, massaged her to rigid want. He kneaded, stroked, whispered.  He loved.

She clenched, quivered. Prayed, pleaded. This time...this time for certain. Yessssss. Now.

He buried himself in her; stroked her, filled her, and when he erupted inside her, she screamed with him, for hm.

The crystal girl shattered.

She gathered up the pieces of herself, mending once more, with silent tears, all but the lost shard; the one she could never find, the one that would make her real.

Next time.  Perhaps, next time.

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