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Draw in the Night

By James Hornby

Draw in the Night
EPUB, 26 pages ebook Online Price:
£1.99
ISBN: 9781907726910
Imprint: Xcite Books
Published: 19th May 2010

Category: Contemporary, Romance

Rating: 0 vote(s).



An erotic short story by James R. Hornby 

The ocean whispers secrets as it caresses the shore; an eternal on looker to the lives of men and women. He is the artist, looking for that perfect image, that perfect moment: she is the lonely waitress looking for the perfect lover. The ocean whispers secrets of their meeting and their passion. The night holds the secret to their mutual release and satisfaction.

Full, rounded breasts; nipples slightly elevated on soft skin. Waists that scoop in from below ribcages to sweep out again to full hips which then taper down through thigh and calf to the delicate tick of a foot. Lips that smile, plump red lips; small mouths, large mouths, slim faces, oval faces, bright eyes, dark hair, fair hair, skin the colour of milk, skin the colour of dusky chocolate ... He has sketched them all. 
In some cases he has done more than sketch the models, the pad having fallen away as he rises to meet them in the bright studio. His long-fingered hands, artist’s hands, slipping across soft skin; cupping a breast, a buttock, tracing the line of her hip, across her belly and lower ’til he finds her slit, already slick, puckered for a kiss. His fingers slip inside, and he feels her heat, her need. It yields to him as his fingers hook, explore. She gasps into his mouth, a sweet desperate sound: ‘Oh.’
And he just wants to give her more. He slows his exploration. She sighs and lays her head on his shoulder. 
Muscles clench around his fingers, drawing him in, he applies a little more pressure and he feels the brush of hair on his cheek as her head rises, rolls back, lips parted to utter another cracked: ‘Oh!’
But that was then and this is now. His days of learning his craft have faded into the past and become vague outlines in his memory. He has travelled for much of the spring, seeing old friends and visiting places of beauty. He has seen great castles, proud cathedrals, darkly seductive crypts. He has seen great forests, wide rivers, bold mountains and lush valleys ... and he has drawn them all. And yet he still searches, he searches for that one thing that he can draw, either man-made or not that possesses the beauty that he longs for.
It’s not the seductive green eyes that he first notices. It’s not the sway of her hips from beneath the hem of the blue shirt that draws him in. It’s not the swell of breasts beneath her apron or the tresses of dark hair that fall past her shoulders. It’s her voice.
He is sitting with a sketchpad in his lap and a stick of charcoal in his hand. There is a half complete image on the page as if ghosts live in the weave of the paper. 
Beyond the table at which he sits the day is bright, slashed by the shadow of the awning. A harbour wall drops away to the placid green of the water. Gulls skim low and their cries, like rusty gates, rise into the air and repeat, repeat, repeat. 
Two children stand out in the morning. The older is a boy with a green visor casting an eldritch glow over his features as he looks down at his sister. She is wearing a pink visor which gives her face an angelic glow; she is laughing. Neither are older than five or six though green visor acts a lot older. He is trying to drive his sister back towards a wall while she joyfully dances about. His face is serious, a soldier on campaign while she has the bleary innocence of youth infusing her features.
This is the picture that is growing on the man’s sketchpad. He has only looked up a couple of times. His intention is clear, to catch the motion of the girl and the solemnity of the brother as he herds her back. 
The waitress approaches his table and he is aware of her though he has not yet looked up. There is the scent of shampoo, coffee and woman. He ignores her as he finishes the shadow of the boy which stretches long at the child’s feet. 
A shift of air and he is aware the waitress has moved beside him. A dark strand of hair dances into his peripheral vision. 
‘That’s wonderful.’ Her voice is deep clear and rounded. It is like the toll of a golden bell and it is seductive. He thinks that she is probably not aware that the tone of her voice has the ability to send a shiver down his spine and further. The charcoal pauses above the paper. 
‘Thank you.’ His own voice is soft; he doesn’t want to break this tiny moment, as though it is as delicate as a glass butterfly. He thinks he is the only one here in this instant; she is outside the bubble yet the creator of it. He lets his breath out slowly and turns his head to look at her. 
She is in profile and her eyes flicker back and forth over the contents of his lap. He shifts uncomfortably. The motion causes her to turn to look at him. Her head is canted and a wall of dark, sweet smelling hair hangs between her and the world. It is a posture in which the man feels intimate, this close he could kiss her behind that dark veil.
Only a handful of seconds have passed and yet he wishes to hold it just that bit longer, he dares himself to until it is at that point where the boundary is pushed back. 
He looks back into her eyes which are wide and lovely. They are like the sea, not blue yet not green and, as with the sea, they hold mysteries in their depths. She licks her lips and stands.
‘What can I get for you today?’ she asks. The sensual resonance to her voice has diminished, it is still there though. He suspects that it is always there.
‘Coffee, scrambled eggs and toast.’ He answers after considering for a moment.
‘Orange juice?’ She’s looking directly at him.
‘Yes,’ he says. 
Again she looks down at the sketchpad in his lap, up at the playing children and then back at the picture. The motion exposes the pale curve of her neck before it is again hidden like a secret.
‘Wonderful,’ she says again, though it is to herself and he can hear the wonder there in her voice. She moves away leaving the puff of herbs, flowers, coffee and a scent, that he knows, is all her own.
He lights a cigarette and leans back in the cheap plastic chair. 
Out in the morning, the boy has managed to coax his sister onto a low wall where they sit side by side. The boy is holding up his pudgy hand with the fingers spread like a starfish. With the other hand, he ticks each digit off. He is teaching her to count. 
They sit with their heads close together; the bills of their visors making them look like a pair of exotic birds in conspiracy. The little girl laughs, and with her own splayed hand, pokes her brother in the chest who rocks backwards.
The marina is home to boats that poke their masts into the air like so many trees; a forest of stripped trunks. The soft onshore breeze makes the sail lines slap against them; it sounds like applause.
There is a tread from the café behind him and the waitress sways into view bringing her mixture of scents. She begins to unload the tray. 
He leans forward and, as she takes the coffee cup, there is an awkward moment where his hand rests on hers.
‘Don’t worry,’ he quietly says. ‘Leave the tray.’ He pulls his hand back still feeling the softness of her skin and the slight tension of muscle beneath it. 
She stands and looks down at him. There is something new in her eyes. Is it longing? He can see it fall like a sea fog extinguishing the light of mystery.
She turns her head and looks out into the day; this pose is open and resigned. She is like a figurehead on a boat set for hard seas. He can see the underside of her gently moulded chin, the swell of her breasts as they rise and fall with her breath.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ she asks, still looking away.
He looks past her and at the objects of her gaze.
‘No, thank you,’ he says and the young mother moves away.

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