Betwixt

Her Cynosure

SHE WASN'T SURE IF IT WAS THE NOISE OF HIM STRAPPING ON HIS boots or the flickering, incandescence of recently kindled flames, that woke her but she shifted listlessly, drawing her arms above her head to stretch her long-dormant form. As her eyes began to focus, fluttering against the flickering light, she was immediately drawn to the man at the end of her bed. His bent-over frame rippled in the early morning light as she watched him fiddle with the buckles along his shins. The sun soaked skin of his back lay bare for her wandering gaze as she contemplated her desire for such a dark, war-tried man.

She arched in the bed with her arms draped over her head in her dark splayed curls; the rough blankets making their way down her body with each leisurely shift of her hips. The cloth's coarse fabric raised gooseflesh over her skin and puckered her rose-tipped breasts until she was fiercely awake. All of her attention drawn to the littlest features of him; his long twisted, corded hair that ran down his body like wine, the way his leathers clung to his thighs.

A whine from the corner distracted her thoughts of the night's activities to the raggedy smoke-black dog resting at his feet with it's heavy head rested on dirt covered paws. The room felt rich and warm, full of life and peace. A mood of domesticity that unwound any unrest until she settled, perfectly content in the woven spell of early dawn.