Hungry For You by A.M. Harte

Author:A.M. Harte [Harte, AM]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: 1889 Labs
Published: 2011-01-29T00:00:00+00:00

SEVEN BIRDS

I. Pears

Beneath the tangy skin is honeyed flesh that dissolves like sweet snow in her mouth. She leans against the tree trunk and bites into the pear again, curves her palm to catch the sticky juices running down her chin. The afternoon sun trickles in through the overhead branches, painting patches of warmth on her arms.

It is 21— and the last Queen of England lies on her deathbed. The Kingdom is about to fall but for now the woman sits in her slice of Eden, her corner of Regent’s Park, and eats pears and wonders whether any of the passing men are the right one.

II. Turtle Doves

They meet on a stairway. He notices her first, admires the impractical silver high heels that click-click deliciously against the marble floor. Every step is a challenge. Catch me, those shoes are saying. Catch me if you can.

When she sees him looking, her red lips curve up into a smile and she keeps walking up the stairs in front of him, daring, tempting. Her long, silky hair brushes against her shoulders with every movement, and in that moment he would let her do anything, everything.

She stops on the first floor landing and he follows her through the double doors into the main hall of the museum. She ignores him, stares up at the arched ceilings and the gold-edged frescoes as if they hold the answer to some forgotten question.

“They’re beautiful,” he says, looking upwards, although he finds art boring and is only here to satisfy the whimsy of a friend.

She looks at him, smiles, looks away. He must do something more to capture her attention.

“I love the birds,” he says, then hates himself for sounding so idiotic.

“They look sad,” she replies, surprising him. “Their wings were clipped before they learned to fly.”

He tells her his name, and civility ensures she returns the favour. The man smiles, sensing victory is close. He takes her unadorned hand with gentle fingers and leaves a warm kiss on her skin that sends shivers down her spine.

The paintings don’t seem so interesting anymore, crumbling like the plaster they are made of in the face of his maleness.

III. Hens

The woman’s feet are eager, tapping impatiently as she stares into the mirror and applies one last lick of mascara. She smoothes down her clothes, nods at her reflection. As she reaches for her handbag, the doorbell rings.

She flies down the hallway and opens the door to find him waiting on the other side. Her heart flutters nervously as she drinks in the stubble on his jaw, the form-fitting clothes and steady blue eyes. There is a mischievous curl to his lips when he smiles that almost tempts her to drag him inside. Almost.

“Are you ready?” he asks. She is ready for anything.

As they walk to the tube, he rests his hand on the small of her back and tells her what he has planned for the evening. She barely listens, mesmerised by the warmth of his fingers against her spine. It is the start of something, she is sure of it.

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