Muddy Sheen

Emma leaned her head back into Quinn’s hand as his fingers splayed though her blonde tresses, pulled at curls and lifted her lips to his. His tongue deep in her swollen, chapped mouth.

Their clothes came off in waves. His suit jacket. Her heels. Kissing. Her shirt. His Armani tie. Fumbling. His shirt. Her belt, badge, and cell. Fondling. Her jeans. His pants. The trail of clothes through her spacious Upper East Side apartment was a testament to passion.

Everything about Quinn was thick and rigid, from his sculpted arms to the muddy sheen of freckles that looked like a coat of war paint. He stared down at her petite yet muscular frame held in the light of the westering moon that drifted in through the blinds. Against the dark blue sheets her pale skin was luminescent. Her face went lax as the body took control, the eyes drowsy, the mouth slightly parted. Emma stifled the sound that wanted to come out because it was too desperate and pained. He pressed his groin into her naked thigh – heat seeking the moist.

Quinn’s hand stroked her cheek and jaw line. His hand slid down the front of her throat with a gentle massage and Emma was submerged into a memory twenty years old and no longer solid. Time rippled back on itself – moments and memories undulating. A fluid hand held her aloft by the throat before …