Pocketful of Sand

I watch him move his thumb over the indentions, gently, slowly.  Back and forth, like an intimate caress.  It’s hypnotic.  Erotic.  A fist clenches low in my core causing me to inhale sharply at the sensation. It feels as though he’s rubbing me with those long fingers. Touching me, arousing me.  It’s so physical, so tangible, so real that I have to reach back to steady myself against the edge of the desk.

“What sharp teeth you have,” he says quietly, Big Bad Wolf-style.  When he glances up at me, his eyes are a dark and serious amber.  “Do you bite?”

“No,” I whisper.  “Do you?”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

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Table of Contents

DOOR NUMBER ONE

DOOR NUMBER TWO