Delectable (Sinclair Bryant)

The Eye of The Storm

I understand why storms are named after people.
Some swiftly pass you by, leaving behind little damage; as if they were never there at all.
Some give you warning, allowing time to baton down your hatches; some safety to weather the fall.
Some you hate. Others destroy.
Far off and close by.
Then,
with defiant courage,
there are those that make you want to shed your weak human layers,
and quench your thirst in it's rains.
I'll say it again.
I understand why storms are named after people.

Sian was a storm and Sinclair was like a man desperate for water, cupping his hands to catch imploding skies, in case they never returned.

*

"What do you mean you know?" Sinclair whispered, his splayed hands holding Sian's face a mere breath from his lips before selfishly kissing her again.

Sian tried to think coherently but was distracted by the feel of Sinclair's fervent reciprocation. Familiar but new. Exciting yet safe.

"France," she whimpered between the meeting of their lips. "You're...leaving."

Sinclair almost growled as he pried himself away from Sian, holding her steady against his yearning, awoken body.

"How?" he panted, already struggling to contain himself.

"I saw the things on your desk," she admitted, trying to step back but being stopped by the tensing of Sinclair's muscles.

"And yet you're back?" he questioned softly, his amber eyes on fire with love and lust. "What can I give you now?"

"Two weeks," Sian stated with a crease in her usually smooth brow. She was fighting the sticky feeling in her throat, banishing any quiver of unwanted emotion. "You've got two weeks to give me. If you want to?"

It wasn't a question that needed to be asked. He would give her his last weeks, without a thought, - but he knew when he left, and the droughts came, the cupping of his hands would be left dry. And he would undoubtedly want more.

So, like fading souls, they would have to drink while they still could.

Sian slipped her hands down from his hair over his neck, feathering his warm skin with the ends of her soft fingertips. Sinclair's eyes faltered, closing as her filed nails brushed along his chest.

"Goddd," Sinclair shook, "I've missed you."

With a sharp movement, his hand encompassed the back of Sian's neck, pulling her back to him before guiding her swiftly to the adjacent wall. His nose, still tender from its assault, twinged but he ignored any impediment to their long awaited union.

The thought that she was his, for a time, another short spell in his long life, would not dampen his unbridled passion for the woman who moaned so blessedly into his mouth.

His thoughts were ripped away by untamed touches, pushing into the muscles of his lower back, before delving to the curves of his buttocks. Her hands remembered him, as if Sinclair's body had always been available to her.

With kissed warmed lips now ravishing her neck, she squeezed and pulled, until their hips were labouring together, searching for more.

The barrier of their clothes was a frustration to both, impeding flesh that would only be satisfied by the others. Sinclair brushed down her body, sweeping sensation after sensation until his fingers met the end of her tank top. He nipped over her collarbone to the centre of her chest before pulling his head up to her closed eye.

She opened them as he began lifting her top, revealing paler skin that the sun had not yet had privilege of touching.

"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice like thick honey.