Naughty Or Nice. Rachael Stewart

of ‘Good King Wenceslas’.

      ‘Seems we’re destined to have spectators,’ he says.

      And as my lips part on no words I’m swamped by the memory of our previous encounter and the fear that I want him to kiss me. So much it hurts. But it’ll be my undoing. A ten-year-old memory stoked, refreshed, and my feelings with it.

      And a hope for something that just isn’t possible.

      My tongue sweeps across my lower lip.

       It’s nerves. I’m just nervous.

      My clit pangs painfully, mocking me.

      ‘Please, Lucas, this has to stop.’

      I think of his mouth, his tongue, the dizzying pressure he administered so expertly over me. Stop. Don’t stop. My thoughts are as chaotic as the blood racing through my veins.

      ‘Tell me to leave…’

      He steps forward, close enough to stop the chill wind breaching the gap between us, and now I’m just hot. Hot and confused.

      ‘…and I will.’

      ‘I… I…’

      ‘Tell me.’

      ‘Please…’ I try again and fail. I don’t want to breathe—don’t want to inhale his scent, his warmth, his appeal. All my barriers are collapsing.

      ‘Evangeline…’

      My name rolls over his tongue and his head dips. The air sits in my lungs as I neither rebuke him nor pull him in. And then he sweeps past my mouth, along my cheek to my ear, his lips gently brushing over my skin with his words.

      ‘I want you.’

      A strange whimper sounds, and as he lifts his head, his lips curving, I know it’s come from me. I see the triumph in his gaze as he moves for my mouth and a slice of sanity erupts.