Don’t Speak

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Tears streamed down her face and burned the soft, crimson flesh of her cheeks as she pressed the cool bottle of Absolut to her forehead and studied the cotton-candy clouds that floated across the blue sky outside of her windows. She bathed her listless limbs in the warmth of the morning sun as she lay on a shaggy rug, amidst the broken glass that was scattered across the living room, and rested her feet on the velvet cushions of the tufted, turquoise sofa.

A faint, crackling sound pierced the silence as the needle of her antique phonograph scratched the surface of a spinning vinyl record and breathed life to the legendary voice of Nina Simone. The deep, melancholy Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair drifted over the graveyard of massacred paintings piled next to the shattered picture frames, an upturned coffee table with its tapered legs reaching out to the exposed ceiling pipes, two fractured table lamps and a sea of slashed chiffon curtains sprawled across the walnut floor.

Izabel took a swig of vodka and fought back the urge to cough as the clear liquid raped the inside of her throat.

The phone rang.

“Hey, you know what do do after the beep.” Beep!

“IZABEL, what the fuck! Answer your goddamn phone. I know you’re at home, sulking like a lazy cow over this stupid breakup. Try not to commit suicide until after our afternoon meeting with the client -” an angry honk in the background drowned out her sister’s angry voice, “-green means go, you stupid fuck!”

Click.

Izabel closed her eyes and imagined floating atop of a lake. Its placid surface mirrored the steel-grey sky above and matched the rhythm of her deliberate backstrokes to the chirping of the birds that sang among the tall, conifers.

A familiar voice echoed throughout the surrounding boreal forest, spearing the dense fog, and called out her name. It spawned a lonely tear. The crystal drop snaked down her pallid cheeks and melted into her frozen, blue lips. She continued to swim through the cold water. Her lifeless body sailed out of everyone’s reach and drifted towards a place where she could spend the rest of her life in solitude.

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Don’t Speak

Filthy Sexy Nasty Lust

Selena lies awake in an empty bed. The soft curves of her naked body are enveloped in darkness and her pensive gaze is fixed on the diamond stars that glisten above the tall skyscrapers outside of her windows.

She gives out a hopeless sigh; the kind of a sigh a woman makes when her heart aches for her lover.

The man of her dream is thousands of miles away, on a business trip, and she sates her carnal desire for him with a glass of wine and a boatload of wishful thinking.

Now, her mind is a whirlwind but it’s not riddled with thoughts of her client’s multi-million dollar campaign. It’s infested with dirty, sexy thoughts of him.

She yearns to kiss, bite and lick his lips. She wants him next to her, in this cold and empty bed.

Selena closes her eyes and shuts the world outside. Nothing matters. Not the noisy traffic, not the helicopter in the sky, not even the sound of her phone vibrating against her mirrored side table.

She envisions their bodies tumbling down into a sea of turbulent white, cotton sheets. He lies on top, and his body is warm, inviting and hard as stone. The scent of his skin lingers on her lips and sends a brain-numbing shiver down her spine.

He runs a hand through her midnight-blue locks. His hand is rough and calloused, and yet it feels deliciously soft against her cheek. His thumb outlines the shape of her soft, plump lips, and then it glides down her long neck and finally rests on her collarbone.

Selena gives out a shiver.

Her skin burns underneath his fingertips and with every caress, her body sheds the last ounce of innocence. In its place comes a painfully sensual feeling; it uncoils in the pit of her stomach like a snake and it’s ready to strike.

Selena knows that once she’s bitten, her body will be poisoned with lust.

He waits patiently for her decision, but his treacherous fingers are tracing, caressing, arousing.

Delicately, almost cautiously, her feather-soft lips brush against his and leave a trace of sweetness behind. She relishes the warmth that bursts in the pit of her stomach and pools into her toes and fingertips. His breathing is deep and shallow, and the glisten in his ebony eyes is enough to consume her whole.

He wants her. It’s undeniable.

She parts her lips and welcomes his lust with a wicked grin. His warm breath, sweet as honey and potent as red wine, caresses her cheeks and then his mouth crushes hers in a ‘til-death-do-us-apart kind of a kiss.

The kind of a kiss that threatens to peel the skin off her bones, and robs her lungs of air. The kind of a kiss she wants to share for the rest of her life with the man she fantasizes about almost every single night.

Filthy Sexy Nasty Lust