A Cold Night

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A Cold Night
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

Ian struck the door furiously and stepped outside. A deep breath of the chilly night air stung his flush face. Ian reached back to pull the hood of his grey sweatshirt up over his head. “Shit,” he said fiercely, leaning into the strong wind. Ian’s eyes watered, blurring his vision.

“I don’t believe her,” he said bitterly. “You’re such a liar, Angie!” he yelled out into the deserted darkness. Ian gritted his teeth, fighting the cold. “I don’t know why I bother.”

Ian relaxed slightly as he reached the end of the street, looking up instinctively to check the road before he left the sidewalk for frozen asphalt. The initial shock of cold faded into a dull ache as he dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his long wool coat. “Oh, well,” Ian said aloud, “what did I expect, anyway?” Ian tripped slightly as he stepped into the sharp incline of street’s gutter. Regaining his balance, Ian stopped and turned back to look at the highrise he had just left. Counting up and then over, he located the lit windows of Angie’s apartment.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Ian said. A figure walked past the window. “Look!” Ian yelled to absent witnesses, his voice shrill with anguish. “She changed into her black dress!” Ian felt the burning sting of mistrust. “Just worn out!” he mocked. Ian shook his head and turned to enter the narrow path of the park. “She’s going to bed, all right,” he said, his voice pained with sarcasm.

An old oak hung a spiny branch over the walkway, dead brown leaves clinging desperately to the outreaching skeleton. Ian dipped his head down to avoid the brush of the dormant tree, but a thin finger caught the hood of his sweatshirt. “Dammit!” he yelled, yanking at the offending branch. The leaves rattled in the darkness. enflamed, Ian tore at the tiny assailant, ripping the young piece of wood from the ancient sentinel. Ian thrust the shard of oak deep into his pocket. His fingers ached with cold.

“I don’t know why I expect any different,” he said. Ian sighed and carefully started down the sudden decline of the path into the darker reaches of the park. Taking small steps, Ian imagined Angie in the black dress he felt certain she wore. The thing he liked most about that dress was the way the hem swayed from behind when she walked. Angie had a saucy walk, a light footed bounce that used both hips and churned her rear end. Ian let himself be battered between lust and jealousy. When she walked away in that soft black dress, the hem would dance vigorously, teasing her admirers with glimpses of her thighs, a vision which particularly excited Ian when she wore the lace topped stockings that would tickle him with each momentary glimpse. The warmth of remembering grew in Ian’s breast.

A dim blue light crackled overhead as Ian passed the still cream of a frozen pond. The black path curved around the bank of ice, turning until the wind came from behind. Ian relaxed slightly and kicked at a small stone, sending it skittering over the slick surface.

Angie had worn the dress on the Saturday night Ian had taken her to Nick’s and Ian couldn’t help but remember sitting on the sofa talking to Evan when Angie had stood up. Ian turned to see where she was going, afraid she would find some way to leave him. Angie bent forward slightly as she talked to Francie, and Ian sat, stricken silent and wide-eyed, as he watched the hem of that dress rising just inches away. At once his heart  as the first teasing curves of the lace thigh-highs gripped her white flesh. Ian had stared, mesmerized at the pretty revelation until a sudden bend pushed a puff of black satin panties into his private view. Ian reached down to shift his thickening prick to escape a stiff crease in his jeans as he stepped over a fallen branch.

“She’s probably going to see that Easton piece of shit,” Ian scowled. His heart sank, imagining the tall blonde smiling fellow leering at the creamy hills of her breasts under the plunging neckline. A hard throb tore through his chest. Ian remembered all too clearly the moment when she had allowed him to pull at the dress, exposing the thick pink rings of her nipples. Ian could almost feel the shiver that had run through Angie’s body as he suckled her titties. He loved the taste of her soft flesh, the sweet Angie scent that had been perfectly concentrated in the tangy musk of her wet cunt. Ian stopped walking, the wind whipping around to cut into his eyes, and contemplated turning around, confronting Angie as she walked out her door.

The urge passed reluctantly. As much as Ian felt it was only right that Angie should be his for more than one night, he also knew that violent insistence would immediately drive the woman forever away. Angie would never permit herself to be pushed. Ian lowered his head and pressed on.

Ian wanted desperately to linger in the ecstasy of that night, but since Angie had given him a taste of her ambrosia, driving him into a perpetual fit of famished hunger, she had kept him steadfastly away. Ian almost wished it had never happened, the kiss that had brought him into paradise. Perhaps, he thought, she would have let him remain her confidant and companion if she hadn’t turned him into another one of the dogs howling at her gate. And yet, Ian knew, given the choice again, he would trade it all for an hour in her embrace.

The street lights at the edge of the park twinkled behind a tall cedar, while Ian dove into the decadent memories of Angie’s breasts cupped in his hands, the hot breath of her anxious kiss, the tender fleshiness of her belly. Ian felt the delicate warmth as he kissed her pale neck, the golden strands of her long, flowing hair pressed to his passionate lips. Knelt behind her, Ian had gone wild with the sudden push of her hips back against his, plunging over and over into her wet grasp, Angie’s “Yes!” as she wrenched him closer with both hands in his hair, pulling his tongue hard against her pink throbbing clit. Ian stepped into the street, hurting with pleasure lost. A car horn blasted him alert.

“Fuck you,” he said as the bright lights drove past fast. Ian walked across, into the eerie glow of a city street. The Saloon announced its presence in pink neon lights. Ian took the chrome door handle and stepped into the steamy heat of the bar.

“Earl,” he said, stepping up to the bar, “can I have a beer?”

“Sure, Ian,” replied the bartender. “Cold night?” Earl clunked the heavy glass mug onto the bar.

“Fucking freezing,” said Ian, pulling a note from his jean pocket. Earl took the bill and rang the register.

“You’re here early,” said Earl, handing him his change.

“What else have I got to do?” said Ian after a long drink of the ale.

“Yeah,” said Earl, picking up a rag. “What else do we got to do?”

Ian turned to look around the place, dark and soberly quiet. A couple sat hunched over a plate of fries in one of the booths. Jack Westin threw darts at a segmented round board. Ian turned the other way and caught Theresa’s smile at a table near the back.

“Ian!” the young woman yelled.

“Oh, well,” said Ian, shrugging his shoulders and heading over. “What else have I got to do?” He scooted around to sit down on the bench behind the table. “Hey, Terry,” he said.

“Hi, Ian,” she said, smiling broadly. “I kinda hoped you be here tonight.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I didn’t plan on it, but I always seem to be passing by.”

“Well,” said Theresa, her brown eyes glimmering with delight, “I’m glad you did.” She picked up her beer and took a drink.

“Ah, Terry,” Ian said with a twinge of melancholy. “It’s good to have a friend, sometimes.”

“Ian,” she said, nervously. “I’m glad you think so. Have you,” she paused, choking slightly on her words. Theresa took a drink. “Have you got any plans for the evening?”

“Nah,” said Ian, looking around.

“Well, you want to go see a movie or something?” Theresa looked at her hands while she spoke. Ian shook his head and then leaned forward.

“Tell you what, Terry. I don’t really feel like doing much tonight.”

“Oh,” said Theresa, dejected.

“But do you want to just come over to my place? I could use some company.”

“Yes,” said Theresa abruptly. “I’d love to. That would be nice.”

“All right,” said Ian, smiling. “Let’s finish our beers and get out of here.” They drank steadily in silence. “Ready?” asked Ian.

“Anytime you are,” said Theresa, beaming. She stood and walked toward the door. Ian watched the grind of her bottom as the girl almost danced toward the door.

“Yeah,” said Ian. “What else have I got to do?”

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, nsfw, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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