Triumphs and Gardenias

She cut a swathe through the warmth of a night filled with the smell of lemons and Castrol R. The Triumph a throbbing pulse beneath her. The gentle throaty burble of the powerful engine chewing holes in the silence as she sped to the sea.

They needed to make plans, however, there was another need to be satisfied first.

Upon reaching the cliff edge she turned west and eased her fiery steed towards the ramshackle shelter on the very brink. The tidal swell lazily caressed the rock strewn beach adding salt to the lemons and replacing the mechanical music with a sensuous cacophony of gyrating water.

Killing the engine, the rhythmic waves increasing her awareness, she flicked her eyes over the dwelling for signs of life.

He would already be there, she sensed his powerful presence with mounting excitement. The opiate of his magnetism invaded her being, and her brain dissolved.

With an athletic swing her leg cleared the saddle and she parked one throbbing beast and headed for another.

The door was invitingly ajar and she leaned, following the progress of the peeling paintwork into the seductively dingy interior. An all pervading smell of damp warmth oozed over her senses and something else, indefinable. She held her breath. He was here, he was here, her heart beats echoed. One shadow detached itself from the others and engulfed her in an embrace with all the practised skill that she found irresistible.

His touch was as the caress of a silk nightdress and slithered over her body taking her breath away. Surrendering to the inevitable, the animal warmth between them poised to strike with the passionate joy of an exploding Gardenia. They wasted no time exchanging words, but cleared the table with the swipe of an arm, employing its surface with an efficiency born of haste. The night became one of simple urgency. Ideas would come later.

The copyright of this post belongs to Geneva Grey