Trifextra Weekend 3 - Write a Love Scene

Okay. I didn't think I'd manage this one but ... well ... I've surprised myself. This week's Trifextra challenge was to write a love scene, within the confines of 33 words and 333 words, and excluding the following words and their derivatives:

It didn't hurt that, as I write this I am listening to CBC Radio's Definitely Not the Opera (DNTO)'s Sook Lin Yee interview Jian Ghomeshi, host of Q. Seriously? Hotter than Hades these two, individually. Together they made my transistor radio smoke. This week's topic? Flirting.

If there still exist anything from the forbidden word list I blame the CBC. Um, yup.

Okay, so without further ado, I present to you:

Spring Love

She nudges playfully, only to be rebuffed.

I’m listening, returns an angry hiss.

She nudges again, more carefully this time. Her aim is for the exact spot she knows might shift the tide.

A tiny sound emerges deep from within the other’s throat, but nothing more. The look of deliberate concentration makes her snicker mutely.

Her mouth pursed, she blows pointedly into her victim's ear. A shudder and another miniscule animal noise are the encouragement she hungrily reaps.

Her baby finger newly wet with saliva she draws languidly across her lover’s neck, traipsing her long sharpened nail on goosebumping skin for effect. She cools the wet strip excruciatingly with her breath. Shoulder blades twitch, quadriceps contract. She knows she's on her way.

Sitting in the back of a lecture hall has its advantages unless one deems the discussion intriguing, inspiring or merely necessary. Spring semester has its own demands.

She aches so badly for more and she’s determined to get exactly that. More.

She quickly leans over and sinks her teeth solidly into a shoulder, grabbing her favourite fleshy part. Equally as swiftly she returns to upright and feigns a stillness not reflected inside.

The yelp, sharp and shocking, and the hurried scuttling that ensues, attract many mean backward glares. It is not particularly difficult to compete for attention with the professor’s dry shredding of The Female Eunuch.

Doors frantically bump open and close again with a shush, barely concealing peals of laughter that echo down the hallway.

Around the corner, down some stairs they run. It is as far as they can go, as far as she can manage before she pushes him, breathless and crazed, solidly against a cold concrete wall. Desperately, instinctually, she forges her way home.

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