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For this post, I decided to try my hand at Flash Fiction. I wanted to see if I could do it, and the truth is, I can't. I started with an idea in my head, and I wrote it down, and now it's just the beginning of a longer work, to be completed soon...
Sweaty skin sticks together as hot gasps tear the air to shreds. Fingernails grip backs, buttocks, nipples. Teeth graze flesh and toes curl. The scent of candle wax and body oils fill the room. Souls collide in a mesh of desires, if only for a brief period in time.
This is what happened to Casey, every time she saw the man down the street, working on the roof of Mr. Jackson's house. Of course, he did't realize she'd been undressing him all week long, as she sipped a cold beer on her porch. But that's okay. It's not like it's anything that could ever happen in her lifetime.
She sighed as today, for the fourth day in a row, she watched him climb the ladder, a package of shingles slung over his shoulder like a rag doll. His tan, muscular shoulder, completely visible through his T-shirt, sticking to him with sweat.
Licking her lips, Casey took another sip of her beer, drinking in the sight of the nameless worker down the street. Once he got up on the roof, he dropped the shingles and stood there, wiping sweat from his brow. A gust of wind blew by, and Casey pushed her hair back out of her eyes, so she could keep watching him.
Except now, she saw him watching her.
His movements stilled, and he put one hand on his hips, standing on Mr. Jackson's roof, jeans slung low, T-shirt a little too snug for polite company, squinting his eyes against the sun. He looked at her for a little while, then seemed to come to some conclusion, as he tossed Casey a casual wave, and squatted to get back to work.
He knows I'm watching him, now.
But she couldn't tear her gaze away from the power that emanated from the man on the roof. She knew she was being stupid, fantasizing about a stranger. Crazy, even. Stalkerish.
But she couldn't help it.
Casey sat there, legs crossed to ease the ache in her loins. Her arms brushed across her nipples, which were stiff as pencil erasers, straining against her tank top, every time she raised her beer bottle to her lips. This guy made her hot. Hotter than the Texas heat. The sweat above her lip and on her hairline could have been caused by the sun, but she chose to think it was him.
Because it wasn't just her skin that was on fire.
Watching him work made her insides burn with an intensity that was undeniable.
Casey had read that book. The one that had been featured on Oprah a few years back about visualization. The fact was, she had always been one to obsess over what she wanted. When she'd read the book, she'd realized that if she put enough focus and energy into something, her chances of getting it improved. It seemed to work with her professional life, there for a little while, but it had yet to work with men. Men were certainly the most fun to fantasize about, certainly more fun than jobs.
As she finished her beer, she continued watching the man down the street. Silhouetted against the sunset, a brilliant display of oranges and pinks, she could see his body shimmering in the heat of the dying day. He was packing up his things, and Casey decided it was probably time to go inside.
She stood in front of the AC window unit, feeling the frigid air hit her body, as she closed her eyes and thought about the vision of the man on the roof. He'd taken his shirt off, and tanned muscles stretched and flexed as he hammered, bent, and reached. A sheen of perspiration coated his skin, and Casey's tongue snaked out to lick her lips.
She decided a little fantasizing wouldn't be remiss. If she wanted him, she should put her thoughts and energies into getting him, shouldn't she?
Casey imagined him, walking down his ladder, the tee-shirt he'd taken off tucked into his back pocket, tool belt slung low on his waist, carrying his sack of larger tools over one shoulder. He slings the tool sack into the bed of his truck, and looks over to her house, question in his eyes.
What color where his eyes? She hadn't seen him that closely, so she should make up a color. That would make the fantasy more real.
His hair was brown, so his eyes probably were, too. A dark mocha color. Yeah.
His mocha colored eyes squint in question, as he thinks about what he should do. Nodding to himself in answer, he squares his shoulders, and looks down to unbuckle his tool belt. Strong, thick fingers work the clasp as he deftly releases the belt and tosses it into the back of the truck, before throwing in his tee shirt as well. Shirtless, he strides across the street with purpose and marches up Casey's lawn.
When he gets there, he knocks
In her fantasy, Casey has just gotten out of the shower, where for some unknown reason, she has groomed herself carefully, so when she opens the door, she is clad in only a bath towel. As the stranger's gaze falls on her, his mocha eyes burn with an intense heat that makes Casey's insides quiver.
He doesn't say a word, just takes a step inside the house, kicking the door shut behind him, and the need that has consumed him on the walk to her house takes over. He pulls the towel from her body, eliciting an excited gasp from her, before ravaging her mouth with his, while his hands roam over her contours: grasping, stroking, tweaking. Casey is a raging inferno, and this man is stoking her heat.
Casey realized her fantasy had gotten really hot, really fast. The AC unit was not doing its job, maybe a cold shower would.
One more glance out the front window to see what the mysterious stranger was up to now. Nothing, he was by the truck, so she went to the bathroom to start her shower. She figured she could continue her fantasy after her shower, maybe in bed with a toy.
Before she could turn the nozzle, a knock at her front door surprised her. She walked back to the front of her house, her stomach fluttering.
Could it have worked? Did her fantasies actually make him materialize at her doorstep? But she had specifically worked a shower into her fantasy, so she'd be clean. Right now, she was still all sweaty from sitting on the porch staring at him all afternoon in ninety eight degree temperatures.
She steeled herself for a proper mauling, then opened the door, beginning her gaze at his feet. Scuffed, worn leather work boots tucked into scruffy, tar-stained jeans with a small hole in one knee, led to the too-tight tee shirt that outlined muscles too numerous to name. When her gaze landed on his suddenly familiar face, she saw what color his eyes were, and her breath came out in a whoosh. Gun metal gray. Tabby-cat gray. Smokey gray. Brent Baum gray.
Fuck me. It's Brent.
Her voice came out of her mouth sounding like a choking wheeze. "Brent?"
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