Even though I trembled from head-to-toe, I braved the cold, mid-December wind and followed you close behind. A plume of white air escaped my cherry-red lips as we quietly walked up the dark, damp road towards the old, rustic cottage atop of the hill.
The needle-thin heels of my boots echoed across the eerie silence as I plowed through the sea of orange and yellow leaves on the ground and hoped that you’d speak.
The sky was an ominous shade of grey, and with a promise of a merciless rain.
A blanket of green enveloped the craggy mountains behind the cottage, and fleecy clouds wrapped around the tips like serpents. The arctic air was perfumed with a potpourri of burning fire logs, pine needles and wildflowers.
You finally spoke, your voice deep and masculine.
And, while your dark eyes lingered on the green, weathered roof of the cottage that peeked through the dense trees, I stole a quick glimpse of your face. It was sharp, angular and defined, with high cheekbones, a strong, Roman nose and full lips.
The kind of lips I wanted to taste with mine.
Flushing with embarrassment, I peeled my eyes away from your broad shoulders, strong, muscular body and suppressed the urge to reach out a cold, trembling hand and gently touch your smooth, pale cheeks. Instead, I wrapped my arms around my body to keep warm and continued to listen to your soothing words.
I wondered, with a deep sense of agony, when and if you would ever be mine.