Sleepy Fox Hollow [m] nomajoka

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There the silent blessing came — in the soft sigh of her breath on the wind, in the way her body bent and molded beneath him. 

He pulled her close to his chest, his breath stirring the tufts along her ears. Anselm could not hold her gently in this moment — while she was pliable and the bouquet of her scent maddeningly inviting, she was not the body he wanted.  

And he was not the lover she deserved. 

With want’s desperate fingers he combed along the sheen of her fur, imbued by the warmth of her body and the hardness of her frame pressed against his stomach. 

Fueled by a stupefying sensation of lust, Anselm thrust his arms around the bend of her waist. 

His. His alone. For what seemed like a terrifying length of time, Anselm felt blindly —fumbling at last towards the soft unexplored landscape he’d yet to discover; a side to the widow he had never felt until now. 

Anselm lacked experience, and in turn his performance was more raw than tender. Yet when he was done he did not move from atop her, the rumbling snarls surprising even himself as he came out of his lustful stupor. 

Rather than feel fulfilled, Anselm felt spent and shameful. He had used her for his own sexual desires and he knew it; no gentle image of the widow stirred romantically in his mind as he held her tight to him; instead, he thought of the strength of Etienne’s knowing gaze, and wished — with some revulsion still clinging to him — it had been the seaborn beneath him in the snow.