Excerpt from Beach Bachelors

   
     Fragrant honeysuckle, sweet and languorous, dipped in bunches and swirls between the bars of the trellis, separating them. But slowly, their movements seemingly inhibited by the heavy air around them, they moved toward each other, first wanting, then seeking. They met before a great loop of flowers, cool and edged with green, and she saw that his eyes, cupped by their lower lids, now revealed a new sultriness. Her own lids felt heavy, and she wondered what she must look like to him.
     Self-consciousness vanished as he dipped his head toward hers through the loop of honeysuckle and caught her mouth with his.
     She didn't know which was the more prominent sensation—that of honeysuckle framing their faces, wrapping them in fragrance, or Ponce Cabrera's lips touching hers for the first time. But then there was no question; his lips won, first tentative, finding her out, discovering the contours of her own lips now totally possessed by his.
     Then, more confidently, he moved upon her mouth with such tenderness, with such knowing and wanting, that even the honeysuckle faded away into the night, leaving her aware of nothing but the warm moistness of his lips, so amazingly, unbelievably sensual and desirable. This one kiss seemed to lift her into a suspended world, a place where skin tingled, where sensation spread from the confluence of their lips and melted through her, diffusing hotly through her body.
     The sweet fruity scent of honeysuckle brought forth a ripeness within her; she burgeoned, swelled, grew impatient for the picking.
     His lips released hers, and impatiently he brushed the encircling branch of honeysuckle away. He stood before her now, and his arms went around her in a singularly possessive gesture, pressing the full length of her to his hard, masculine body. Then he was kissing her again, and this was no tentative, romantic kiss; this was a kiss of power and might, of passion and promise, of forthright desire. And she clung to him, not denying her own answering passion, wondering if she had lost her mind. She ceased to smell the cloying scent of honeysuckle—her nostrils, her whole being, filled with the musky male scent of Ponce Cabrera.
     "You know I want you?" The question was sharp, direct, and for a moment she buried her face in his broad chest, drawing her hands forward and resting them on his shoulders, noting the little knobs beneath the skin there, protrusions of the bone. There must be other little secrets that his body held, small deviations from the norm; everyone had those little differences, whether they were moles, odd curves or soft convexes where there should have been hollows.
     Would she get to know the idiosyncrasies that distinguished Ponce from the rest of the male populace? Would he learn hers? A blanket of intimacies spread out before her, and she wondered if they would pick it up, wrap it around them and cloak themselves in its warmth.
 
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