Why do I love him? Why do I want him? Why does the mere thought of him make me smile? Why can I not lie besides him without wanting to run my hand over the velvet of his skin, without breathing in a little deeper simply to savour his scent? I am not sure. I sit across from him and wonder. He looks up at me and I fall into those blue eyes. When have they become so much deeper? For they have. When we met he had that strange...

She was leaving him. Again. And there was nothing he could do about it. They were caught in this endless cycle of renewal to slow decay. He hated it - and still he yearned for her. Every time. He smoothed a hand over the soft length of her back, as she lay besides him, hovering in that insouciant peace between waking and sleep. It made him smile. She had not been this relaxed, this calm in a long time, the last few weeks...

The glass shattered, champagne and shards splattering floor and shoes with a generous helping of too expensive champagne all around. Were this a normal business convention, or a legal seminar, or even an Literature workshop, it would have meant squealing voices and ruined leather - here the participants simply wiped it off their sandals and continued talking, unfazed. The same relaxed state of mind did not apply to the yo...

She wanted him, had wanted him for so long, she could not remember a moment when the mere mention of his name had not tightened something in her, had not heated her blood. It mattered little that most of the time she could not stand him, that he was her boss’s boss, that he was her best friend’s brother. It had not even mattered when he had belonged to another woman. She had always wanted him. So why should it surprise he...

I love his hands, elegant and strong, the hands of a pianist. I love the way they feel on my skin, the way he cradles my face before he takes that first kiss. His hands might have been the thing surprising me the most that first time he kissed me - not his mouth, not those beautiful lips, not that addictive taste. Though his mouth was nothing to sneer at. Patrick knew how to kiss. I watched him practice with a wide range...

She remembered the sheer elegance of the dance, remembered the feeling of tamed power in the movements of her body under the strain of the arabesque, only dimly aware of her partner’s lips toying with the sensitive skin of her neck. Once upon the time, she had thought there were many commonalities between sex and ballet - both addictive, both ecstatic and both fulfilling. Her back arched at the sting of the bite as her pa...

Hands resting on a smooth balustrade, their pale colour contrasting nature, she was frozen. There was something wrong with her hands, something very wrong. They were …. They should be …. She could not catch that instinctive feeling, explain her certainty of wrongness. Her mind seemed to want to give her a desperate hint as she looked down on the smooth, unmarked skin; but she could not grasp the fledgeling thought which h...

He loved the satin of skin under his touch, loved the sounds of desire, exertion and eventual satisfaction. It was a carefully crafted symphony in his hands. There had been pain, wounded pride, bruised skin, broken shards of a life falling to the floor, before she reached for him, before her hands had given him back life. So he honoured her, cherished her, served her with the very core of his being. Her mood was exuberant...

You have to watch a lover to seduce them, to truly reach their core and gain that most intimate of surrenders, to hold their shivering form in your arms, replete by the power you have had over them. It starts on the day you see them, see them for the first time as prey for this sensual hunt, this game of shared pleasured and playful intimacy. Our game started the day I met you, the day your scent first surrounded me, your...