The wind is colder than it was last week and blows up stinging whips of sand that blast her bare legs. Trousers would have been a more sensible clothing choice but she is meeting Bellamy and feels that the unconfined nature of a skirt might encourage unfettered thinking. She locks her car door and turns to the sea. The tide is low and the steel-blue waves are far far away. He will want to walk there, she knows; with her hand loosely tucked into the nook of his elbow as he regales her with tales of the previous week from the relative safety of the flat, open expanse of sand.
_ _ _ _ _
Casimir had heard her car pull up and was waiting behind the door for her when she entered. He swept her up in his muscular arms as she stepped into the room and she squealed and grabbed onto him.
“Hey, babe!” He smothered her neck in kisses as he set her down. She smelled of the sea, of perfume, of that special shampoo she sometimes used.
_ _ _ _ _
She’s swaying around the back room to loud music, the hem of her dress sashaying around her ankles, and doesn’t hear his scooter pulling up in the alley behind the store. She doesn’t hear the back door opening and closing and doesn’t hear his hard-soled shoes clicking over the stone floor – she only knows he’s there when his arms snake around her waist and his body pushes against hers, their hips moving in unison. She knows it’s him because her husband wouldn’t dance with her like this; her husband doesn’t dance with her at all.
_ _ _ _ _
Bellamy leaned back into his leather computer chair and rubbed his hands over his face, massaging his eyes and turning his thumbs in circles at his temples. His head hurt from thinking about her, about the way she danced across the sand, the way she looked with her hair wild and wind-swept with clinging fronds of dry grass and her eyes bright and sparkling for him. If he let it, the exact pattern of the smattering of her freckles formed easily in his mind and her nose, her delicate button nose wrinkled itself teasingly at him, provoking him into nudging it with his own.
Four stories. A beach, a shell, an inanimate and insignificant object that travels from one lover to the next, connecting them, pulling them apart. A story of trust, commitment, destiny – of love, lust, sex – and of trusting your gut.
Fournography is a collection of four short stories revolving around four people and their relationship. It’s a romance, an erotica, and at times is very sexually explicit. Don’t let your mother catch you reading it!
Buy it in Paperback or eBook format (for iPad, Nook and other devices) from LuLu!