She drank.
A seductively curved wine glass raised close to her lips, it’s deep red contents gently rocking between the edges of the thin glass. The candle light throwing out chaotic dance steps of the light, keeping beat to a rhythm of its own; revealing colourful hints of ruby and black, in a myriad shades of red.
Raised, the glass is above her face, tilted back is her head with eyes closed. She waits in anticipation for the liquid to wash down her mouth, eager to quench a thirst. The elegance of her neck exposed, an unexpected consequence of her indulgence, with tender flesh and soft skin made easy target.
Curves more seductive than any glass, tantalising to healthy appetite, but hopeful she is: that one hand explores her tender stretches of skin, that kisses from a special one discover every nerve.
As she drinks, she wants; but speaks not. As she drinks she is watched, and wanted; but knows not.
She would draw them in, but they remain just a sketch: form known but edges rough and indecisive. The precision she craves upon her, lost.
The night passed. Frustration remained.
Morning is greeted with a hazy memory of the tension of the night before, a clear filter applied by the bleaching sun and the day goes on.
A sobered mind regained control, till the night.
