So, as illustrated by the title, this is a scene from my current WIP that is now tentatively entitled The Riptide. I’ll keep the secrets of the story to myself for now. But be prepared: This scene may get a little saucy.
Scene from WIP
Arthur was on top of her now, his hips crushing against hers, their breath mingling, their legs entangled.
This was such a bad idea.
Her Mom would kill her.
She was pretty sure she would kill herself.
His lips. Those lips, so soft and inviting, tilted upward in that annoying rakish way of his. As if he knew her every thought and denial, as if he was reading her soul. He paused inches away, eyes crinkling as they challenged her, eyes searing as they burned her.
But he wouldn’t stay. He could never stay. He could never be hers. She would be like Wendy, waiting by the empty window as she grew old, forever haunted by her stolen kiss.
“Arthur.” Her hands were shaking. Her hands never shook. She swallowed, the noise obtrusively loud. “I need to do homework.”
Was that hurt flashing in those blue depths? It was hard to tell in the night, with only the stars and moon above them.
Arthur rolled off of her into the dewy grass and looked at the stars, his face a mask hidden in the shadows cast by the moon. She swallowed again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” It sounded even lamer coming out of her mouth.
He didn’t say anything until she had turned away, dazily getting to her feet and taking a tentative step away.
She turned around just in time to feel those long fingers tilt her face upwards and then he was kissing her. It was so soft it felt like the kiss of a butterfly, the barest brush of wings. And then he stepped closer, probed deeper, and Eve felt bark at her back as they moved toward the ancient yew. Arthur pressed her to him, his fingers tangling in her hair in a way that made fire spark on her insides. His tongue gently explored her mouth, lingering in all the right places, sending delectable shivers up her spine.
The stars cast off their shimmering rays upon them, and the moon glimmered. Eve felt herself awaken as all resistance melted away. His lips were right. They were hers.
His hands travelled down her throat, caressing above her collar bone, the heat against her cool skin like pleasant fire, igniting her, smoldering against her.
She was smashed against him, unable to think of anything except the mouth moving down the nape of her neck, unable to breathe as the hardness of his chest crushed against her breasts or ignore the way his hips felt as they pushed against hers. Something deep within her ached to explore every inch of his body, to pull off the shirt that was hindering the view of that defined stomach and pull him to her, to feel him in a way she had never dared feel a boy before.
As the wind danced around them she allowed herself to pretend. Just for a moment; one moment in time before the tidal wave of reality could crash into her.
And it did. Oh, it did. Like the tsunami that shattered Atlantis or like a fragile piece of glass splintering beneath a hammer.
And then came the anger.
She pushed him away, her breathing heavy.
Arthur didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything. They just stared at each other, as if a spell cast upon them had suddenly been broken. But that would never happen. Not for her. She knew that now.
Because of him.
Eve turned away and fled into the trees.
Promises be damned.
Arthur wanted to drink in every part of her, lay claim to every inch of her body and soul, murmur in her ear how much she meant to him and how his heart raced through every glance, every smile, every moment they shared. He wanted to make her his own.
She smelled like flowers, like the soft nectar of the night and the wind flowing from the lakeside. Her hair was silky between his fingers, the coolness of her skin in sharp contrast to the fire burning on his.
He couldn’t just let her go. He couldn’t let their time, the days they spent reading and laughing and arguing, slip away into the vortexes of past and present.
He had been wrong. Oh, so wrong. Camelot was not his home.
Arthur pulled her to him, his hand traveling across the delicate throat, spreading his fingers across the top of her chest until he could feel her heart beating against his palm.
He sank deeper, his tongue probing, testing, teasing. He could feel her body responding in the arch of her back, in the way her lips parted and in the tilt of her face.
But then she stiffened; she pushed him away, back into the clearing of the star-dusted night.
Her eyes were searing, the anger and lust and hurt dancing in those grey irises that so often made him catch his breath.
It took him a moment to regain his bearings.
“I told you,” she whispered in a voice that was so unlike her normal one. Not confident and sure, not sarcastic and witty. Instead, it was like the barest breath of a wind that was about to die away. “I can’t.”
Ah, yes. That.
He had ignored her wishes. He had thought only of himself. Again. Always.
As Eve turned away he caught the glimmer of a single tear sparkling in her wake, dropping onto the grass in silence.
Arthur watched her go, standing alone beneath the thousands of stars gazing from above.