Van convinced Anne to climb the stairs to his fourth floor apartment after her work. She was dreadfully tired, but the offer of red wine and a touch for her ailing back could not be rejected.
He settled her on the floor of his lair with a stemless glass and her shoulders between his knees. As he caressed her neck and back with his golden brown hands, he told her a tale of India. The room smelled faintly of flavored tobacco, and Anne closed her eyes and imagined elephants and beautiful bright colors and even Mistress Mary quite contrary.
Van's hands moved to her hair, and she was afraid that he would crush the feathered butterflies she had nestled close to the nape of her neck. But his touch was ginger and expert and harmed nary an ornament. He gently tilted her head back between his hands and freed her forehead of its bangs. She felt cool and exposed and vulnerable. Seamlessly, her naked face was softly grazed by his lips... lips that carried on to claim one side and then the other of her neck.
Anne's eyes shot open and she turned to assume a catlike position facing him. His long lashes and smooth skin were treacherous. His supple, smirking mouth was treacherous.
"Do I taste of soy sauce and mingled sweat?" she asked diffusely.
"Maybe a little bit. But I haven't tasted your mouth."
Figurative feline hairs bristling, she let him take her chin in his hand and kiss her lips, for she was like Scarlett and "should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how."
...
But though his tongue was sweet and soft, Anne knew she shouldn't stay in his land of sun and dust and ivory and blue bottles of gin. Before he could open his eyes, she was out the door, escaping north to the wuthering moors of midtown.
How did her garden grow?
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