Quatern Stories

All day I wait to hear your moan. Though winter's sun can't warm my skin, memories of your murmured words make me burn with shame and yearning. Morning drags its feet toward noon. All day I wait to hear your moan. While you and I, with limbs entwined will late tonight give voice to lust I now, in silence, seek mercy from the clock's recalcitrant hands. All day I wait to hear your moan; arousal, a steadfast presence. Far t...