Kim Golden's Blog - Posts Tagged "excerpt"

And now it's time for another installment of 30 days, 30 stories. This time it's fiction. :) Sorry I forgot to post the other installments here.

Story #7: Drive
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“Is she happy?” It was the first thing my father said to me since he’d met me at the arrivals hall. A quick hug, a shake of his head. And then that question. Not are you okay? Or what the hell were you thinking? Or even You know you’re grounded, right? No, the first thing he said to me was Is she happy? And by “she”, he meant Laney. He never said her name.

OK, I’m exaggerating. He said her name, but he never said it around my mom. And he never talked about her when my sister Siri was around.

“She’s okay,” I muttered. I didn’t want to tell him anything. Even though my dad tried to avoid talking about Laney with my mom, there were still those times when her name would come up in conversation. Dad would bristle and fidget but never defended Laney when my mom or Siri began ripping her to shreds.

“Did you meet…him?” By him, he meant Mads, the Danish guy Laney left him for. He never said his name either. And when I say never, I really mean never. For my dad, Mads was just a pronoun, said as though it filled his mouth with a bitter aftertaste.

“Of course I did, Dad. They live together.” We were driving along E4, heading back to the city in the heavy Stockholm gloom that typified winter. I’d hoped there’d be a little snow but instead it was raining.

My dad did that throat-clearing thing he always does when he’s uncomfortable. I let out an audible sigh and stared out the passenger window at the drab line of strip malls we passed. This time yesterday I was still at the workshop with Mads. He'd shown me how to make a tenon joint and how to use the mortiser. He was making a bed frame, well, a crib I guess. For the baby they were expecting. I'd wanted to stay a few more days, finish helping him with the crib. Working in his wood shop was better than being stuck in school, better even than being stuck here listening to my dad go on and on about how he and Mom were worried about me. I didn't really buy it. If Mom was so concerned, why didn't she call me during the entire time I was there?

"Are you listening to me, Jeppe?" My dad jolted me out of my thoughts.

"Yeah, yeah. I heard you."

"You can't just take my credit card and book an airline ticket when you feel like it."

"I know. I won't do it again." It was good to play the remorse card now. If I didn't, he'd psychoanalyse me from here to Vasastan. I freaking hated that. "I was upset, and you weren't here and I missed Laney."

He cleared his throat again. I was starting to think he needed to keep some cough drops with him all the time.

"How is she?"

"She?"

"Laney. Is she okay?"

"Yeah...she's fine," I said. "You know she's pregnant, right?"

Dad coughed. He flicked a glance at me. His lips twitched like he wanted to say something but then he pressed them together.

"You didn't know, did you?"

"I didn't think she really wanted a baby..."

"Well, she's having one. With Mads."

We drove in silence for a while. I could see the cogs turning in Dad's head. He was processing the news. I'd bet anything he was wondering if she would have stayed if he'd changed his mind about the vasectomy. He didn't think I knew about it. I heard him overheard him telling Mom about it--how Laney had told him she wanted to have a baby with him, but he said no. Maybe he regretted it now. Even if he and Mom were sort of back together again, he seemed more confused than anything. I guess he was wondering how the heck he ended up back where he started.

"He told me he would take her seriously if she was his girlfriend," my dad said out of nowhere. "When I mentioned she wanted to have a baby. I thought it was just a whim of hers. But he knew...he already knew."

Time for another installment of 30 days, 30 stories. It's fiction again.

Story #8: Dance
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Asha extended her left leg and then tested her pointe shoe. It was pliable enough now that she’d warmed it a bit. She rose up en pointe, keeping her upper body perfectly balanced and still, then raised her arms, imagining they were feathery wings as she moved across the floor.

Careful, she reminded herself. It’s been months since you’ve done this.

Yes, her muscles were a little stiff, but she could still do a perfect jeté and relevé. And to feel her body moving again without the pinching soreness or the ache of healing fractures, oh…what freedom. She tested her battements, moving from adagio to allegro and then drifting to the floor in the most graceful of bows.

“That was beautiful.”

She raised her head enough to see Mia Wilkinson standing in the door. She applauded as Asha stood and curtsied for her. “Just wanted to test the old gams, see if they could still do it.”
“You’ve still got it,” she said. “And you’re still so tiny.”
“No, I’m not.” Asha walked over to her, a little self-conscious at being caught out dancing. It was so silly. Dancing was her life. It had always been. She reached for her wrap sweater. “At least it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Asha shrugged on her sweater and then pressed the stop button on the stereo. She tied the stays on her sweater. The dance studio was chilly even with the old steam radiators hissing at full blast. She’d have to talk to Horace about it. The little girls she’d taught this morning were covered in goosebumps by the end of their ballet lesson.

“I still remember when you and I used to take lessons together with Madame Vivienne.” Mia grinned. “You were always so much better at it. Even then.”

“I practiced,” Asha reminded her old friend, “while you mooned over Owen Cudahy.”

“Well, yeah, you were in pursuit of dance, I was in pursuit of love.” Mia linked arms with Asha. “And now I’m in pursuit of lunch. Aunty Mo’s?”

Asha’s stomach growled in reply. She didn’t remember when she’d last eaten. Had she even had breakfast? “Aunty Mo’s—just like old times.”

It's Day 9 of the 30 Days, 30 Stories challenge and I thought I'd combine it with ‪#‎FLF‬ or First Look Friday. I'm giving you an excerpt of one of my unpublished novels, The Time Is Now, as Story #9: Chris & Kyra:

She drained her glass too quickly but she didn't care. He saw that in the way her set stance dared him to criticize her. But he didn't say anything. He drank the rest of his scotch and stared out the window. This wasn't how he'd imagined their reunion. He blamed it on too many movies. He'd concocted a romanticized version of it in his head with her throwing him knowing looks and him suggesting they take a walk like in the old days. He hadn't factored in the rest of the cast of characters--the bitter ex-girlfriends, the hangers-on who'd want any piece of his attention they could get.

Chris inched closer to her until their knees touched. Kyra watched him. The expression on her face was unreadable. She licked her lips. "I want to kiss you so badly," he said, not bothering to pretend any longer. "I've been wanting to since I saw you earlier."

Her lips parted but she didn't say anything. She licked her lips again. She was nervous. He realized that now. So he took the initiative. Just as he had 15 years ago. And when he kissed her, she tasted the same and her body felt so good in his arms. He had to remind himself they were in a public place. And when they parted, she was trembling but she was smiling too.

"Some things never change," she murmured.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"You're still a great kisser."

He grinned and kissed her again, this time lingering over her moist lips and breathing in the scent of her perfume. "You want to take a walk...?"

She nodded fervently. They paid the bill and left without a backward thought for their former classmates and catching up.

I was out all afternoon with some friends so I didn't have time to write a brand spanking new story for Day 10 of 30 Days, 30 Stories. Sharing an excerpt instead from my unpublished novel, The Time Is Now.
Story #10: Unsettling News
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She hated thinking about that night when her dad's partner showed up with another officer she'd never met before and asked to speak to her mother. Kyra had been at home alone. Her mother was working the night shift at the hospital so the officers told her the news in slow, careful tones. She remembered how their words disappeared. She could see their mouths moving but she heard nothing; her dad's partner, Joe Schmidt, was sobbing--heart-wrenching sobs that unnerved her.

"Your dad was the best partner I ever had," Joe Schmidt said again and again. "The absolute best--damn it, he should be here. He should be coming home to you and your ma."

The other officer was calmer. He kept calling Kyra "ma'am" which she couldn't understand at first. Her mother was "ma'am"...she was Kyra, sixteen years old, Kyra Amelia Halliwell. She was the girl who was in love and was accepted to five different colleges and was going to the prom soon. Her hands shook and then her entire body seemed to vibrate and clatter. And then she was on the floor and she was screaming but she didn't know if the noise was really her or if she was imagining it. But a black hole was opening beneath her and the darkness was pulling her in, and swirling and mawing. She didn't remember anything until something cold and wet stunned her back to reality. The other officer had placed a compress on her forehead and was asking her if they could take her somewhere so she wouldn't be alone. She told them to take her to Chris's house.

"Don't you want to go to your aunt's house on Brown Street?"

She shook her head fiercely. "I want to be with Chris."

So they drove her there. It was nearly midnight when they arrived and Chris's mother didn't want to let her in until Officer Schmidt explained what had happened. Even then, his mother hesitated. It was Chris's father who'd ushered her in and called for Chris. She was still shivering, tears were still streaming down her face and she felt her legs giving way beneath her.

When Chris appeared at the top of the stairs, she just sobbed his name and he practically flew to her. He took her upstairs and ignored his mother's protests that Kyra should go to the guest room. He took her into his room and laid her on the bed and covered her with his quilt. Then he lay down beside her and melded his body to hers, holding her and whispering in her ear that everything would be okay and urging her to close her eyes and just hear his voice. And she drifted to sleep and heard only him and the sound of his breathing and his heart beating and blood rushing through her ears.

They lay like that all night.

Downstairs his parents argued. His mother didn't want some stranger showing up on their doorstep with her problems.

That was how Mrs. Morrison saw it--a police officer, a father gunned down in the line of duty, was an "unsettling problem" that neither they nor Chris needed. She woke once and heard Chris's father talking about compassion and shock and how Kyra was right to come to Chris. But his mother refused to back down. The next morning she drove Kyra home and said she should be supporting her mother rather than clinging to Chris.

Another excerpt from my unpublished novel, The Time Is Now, for 30 Days, 30 Stories.

Story #11: Confession:
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"Is he still in prison?"

"Yeah, man," Lamar said, sounding miffed by Chris's question. "I would've told you if he was out but you know he's on Death Row. He's never coming out."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry." Chris swore. "I just keep thinking what he would do..."

"People change, maybe he's changed."

"You think he actually thought about redemption while he's been in Graterford?"

"Maybe, I don't know...depends on who you ask."

"You talk to his mom?"

"Yeah, she still swears her son would've never hurt anyone."

"Is he up for parole soon?"

"He killed a cop so parole's out of the question. All he can do now is appeal his execution."

"You'd tell me though, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, you know I would."

"I saw a guy who looked like him the other day...scared the shit out of me. For a second, we made eye contact but this guy...he didn't look at me like he recognized me or anything. He just flashed me a look that said 'who the fuck are you?'...You know what I mean?"

"You should talk to someone about this, man."

"I'm telling you."

"Yeah, but you should talk to a professional too. I can't tell you what you need to know to get this out of your head."

"I don't think it'll ever be gone."

"You ever tell Kyra what happened?"

"No."

"Maybe you should."

"Right, like I could call her after five years and do small talk with her and then say, 'By the way, you remember that night I was supposed to come get you and I never did? It's because your neighbor pulled a gun on me.'"

"Sooner or later, the truth will come out," Lamar sighed. "I don't get why you'd rather she thought of you as a jerk who broke who heart. If you told her what happened she wouldn't be so screwed up over you."

"I am a jerk though. That's the problem."

"No you're not. If you were a true jerk, you wouldn't have called the police after you heard what happened."

"I shouldn't have run away."

"You think anyone else would have done differently? At least you told the police what you knew."

Chris knew Lamar was right but that didn't stop the chill fear from creeping inside him. And it didn't stop the shame that he'd been too scared to testify in court or even tell Kyra what he'd found out. Instead, he'd cut a deal with the District Attorney--he could testify to the judge without being called to the witness stand. Since he'd only been 17 and was technically still a minor, all he had to do was tell them exactly what Monty said to him and drop his charges against Monty so that the murder charge would be the case that would take priority.

He'd done it thinking he was keeping them both safe. He'd done it because his parents pushed him to make a clean break. He'd done it because he loved Kyra too much and needed to clear his head. But in the end, he felt like it had cost more than it was worth. Was it his selfishness talking, or had he given up too easily?

Ready for another instalment of 30 Days, 30 Stories? More fiction. Another excerpt from an unfinished WIP, Another Cup of Love.

Day Twelve: Honesty?
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“Milo!” Erin glanced over her shoulder. Her parents were still upstairs. Their voices filtered down to them as they gushed over the original crown moulding and baseboards. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said and kissed her. “And I found a little something for you on the way.” He was carrying a pale wicker basket filled with two bottles of wine and a bouquet of gerbera daisies. There were probably gourmet goodies hidden beneath the flowers.

Erin reached behind her and closed the vestibule door. “I’ve kind of got company…”

“Send them away,” he said, grinning. “I want to have you all to myself.” He set the basket on her console table and then pinned Erin against the wall. He kissed a trail along the curve of her neck and she moaned softy.

“We can’t…” She eased away from him reluctantly. “My parents…”

Then her father bellowed from upstairs, “Erin, baby, who’s at the door?”
Milo slowly pushed open the vestibule door. He stepped into her living room, the basket now in his arms again. Erin followed him inside and closed the vestibule door behind her. Her father was coming down the stairs now, eyeing MIlo curiously. When her father reached the bottom stair, Milo extended his free hand and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Milo Hedlund. I’m a friend of Erin’s.“

“Charles Foster,” her father said. “And my better half, Estelle.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” He grinned at Erin. “You didn’t tell me your parents were coming for a visit.”

“It was kind of a surprise,” she said.

“So how long have you two known each other?” Her father asked. He glanced at the basket, then at Milo. Erin cringed inside. She knew her father was taking in Milo’s messy mop of hair, the slouchy chinos and tennis shoes and measuring him up by a standard that seemed unfair.

“We’ve been see-" Milo started, but Erin cut him off, quickly placing a warning hand on his arm.

“Milo’s been giving me advice on how to renovate this place,” Erin said quickly. Milo flinched at her easy betrayal. He shook her hand off his arm.

There was a weird pause then her mother said,”What a lovely gesture.”
Milo handed the basket to Erin,”I just wanted to congratulate Erin on all the progress she’s made.”

“I agree,” her mother smiled now. “It’s a lovely house, even with the work that still remains.”

“There isn’t that much left to do,” Erin said. She glanced at Milo. The smile he’d fixed on his lips was wavering.

“We’re about to have dinner,” Estelle said. “Would you like to join us?”

“I wish I could but I have to run” Milo said quickly. He smiled but there was uncertainty and hurt mingling in his eyes. “I promised my daughters we’d have dinner together.”

“Yeah, well, I’d better go,” Milo said. “Like I said, I just wanted to drop off the basket.”

He said a quick goodbye to Erin’s parents, then leveled Erin with a cold look. “I’ll see you around.”

Then he opened the vestibule door and headed into the small anteroom. Erin’s father took the basket from Erin and said, “I’ll put this in the kitchen for you, honey.”

Once her parents were headed for the kitchen, she followed MIlo.
“Milo—wait, don’t just walk away from me.” Erin hurried after him. He was already at the front door, his left hand gripping the shiny brass knob.

“I think you already showed me the door.” He said, evenly. “I thought we were going to be honest with one another. I thought that’s what we both wanted.”

“I do want that but you don’t understand.” Erin glanced over her shoulder at her closed vestibule door. The thick colored panes of stained glass formed a insulating barrier, keeping her mother and father from seeing the anger etched on Milo’s face. What would her parents say if she told them that Milo was the new man in her life. She could imagine her mother’s thin, disapproving smile. “My parents—they’re old school, they think it’s nice to have white friends but dating someone white—"

“I don’t believe it, you’re pulling the “It’s a black thing, you wouldn’t understand” routine on me,” Milo shook his head and laughed bitterly.
His words hit her like a slap. Erin pulled back. She couldn’t deny what he’d said. The very words had formed in her mind, just waiting to be used as a catch-all excuse. She shook her her head though, ready to deny that she would ever be so silly and insecure as to resort to the race card.

“I can’t believe you’re such a jerk,” she said instead, the words stating false and metallic as they slid over her tongue. Her stomach twisted and knotted at her dishonesty.

“At least I’m an honest jerk, then,” he retorted, keeping his voice low. “I haven’t lied to anyone about you—not my kids, not my parents, no one.”
He threw open the door and stepped out onto the front porch. The evening sun was just setting and the sky was turning a burnt orange that should have felt warm. Milo shook his head. Erin followed him out on to the porch. None of her neighbors were out, it was too chilly now for them to be out. She knew that some of them wondered about Milo. A few had been bold enough to ask and she’d simply said, “He’s my friend.” They never pressed, but she was certain that they had already figured out he was more than a friend. She said Milo’s name and he turned, the anger slipping away for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just need to figure out…”

“Are you going to tell them tonight?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I need to prepare them, MIlo. It’s not that simple.”

“It is if you want it to be.”

Erin had one last heartbreaking look at him. His pale blue eyes flashed coldly at her and the intense look her gave her told her that there would be no easy way back from this point. Then he walked down the porch steps and stalked away from her. She watched, not trusting herself to follow him. She wanted to stroke away the tension knotting his shoulders. She’d caused it and yet it was still ingrained in her to want to soothe him. Was this what people talked about when they talked about love? Wanting to make the other person feel better? Wanting to take away their pain and replace it with something real, something tangible? He was at his car now. He didn’t look back. She turned away and returned to the warmth of her vestibule, closing the door behind her. She stood there for a moment, waiting for her eye to stop burning with angry tears and listening to her father discuss the merits of her new house with her mother. She blinked back the tears and breathed in and out deeply. Her parents would want answers too. They’d probably seen through her ruse. Lies were never worth the damage they wrought.

Time for another installment of 30 Days, 30 Stories. More fiction. A short story I never finished. Maybe I will now.

Day Thirteen: Unfaithful
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“Come here,” he mouthed at me, watching me over the rim of his wineglass. He smiled then glanced at the dark alcove under the stairs.

I pretended not to notice. I was talking to Gabi, whom I hadn’t seen in ages because of him. Tonight he wouldn’t distract me, I’d decided.

“What’s going on?” Gabi suddenly demanded. Though she was smiling at me, her brown eyes bore into me with precision of a drill. “Come on, out with it.”

“Nothing’s going on,” I said and turned so that I could no longer see him.

“You may as well tell me,” she continued. “I’ve seen how odd you’ve been lately.”

“Gabi, nothing’s going on. My life couldn’t be more boring.”

“Right. You never return my phone calls, you say you’re at home but you’re never there when I come by, all your excuses sound cagey. What gives?”

“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” I smiled brightly at her. “Honestly. I’ve just been busy with the Zetterberg project. Things’ll calm down in a few weeks.”

“You told me you finished that project ages ago.”

“Steve did a rewrite of the last fifty pages of the script so I’ve been proofing them and helping him with some other things. That’s it-- I swear.”

Gabi gave up then, shrugging her slender shoulders and taking a drag from her cigarette. She smoked elegantly, like Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep or Key Largo. She called out a “Hello darling” to someone. I didn’t need to turn to know it was him. I’d felt him approaching, felt the weight of his stare on me with each step he took. Now he was standing behind me, and the lemony scent of his aftershave filled my nostrils and made me weak. I glanced over my shoulder at him and said a quick hello. He put his hand on the small of my back and kissed my cheek, then kissed Gabi quickly on the lips and called her beautiful. Stupidly, this infuriated me though we all called her that. She was beautiful, with her sylphlike body, her avant-garde fashion sense and wild hair. Everyone loved her and she loved everyone. I couldn’t stop him from innocently flirting with her when it was what he’d always done.

“Manda’s got a secret, and she won’t share it with us,” Gabi informed him as she brushed stray crumbs from his shirtfront. “Perhaps you can wheedle it out of her.”

“There’s no secret,” I insisted. I pretended to be interested in the Indian carving hanging on the living room wall. I knew that Martin had purchased it in a marketplace in Goa. He liked to recount the story of how he found it on his last day in India, after several weeks of smoking far too much hashish and eating questionable curries. The carving was beautiful and intricate, and depicted Ganesh, the god of greed, among other things. Fitting, since now I was greedy for Andrew. I knew I shouldn’t have him and yet I craved him all the more, even if it meant resorting to subterfuge.

“Manda’s too open to have secrets,” he said, his hand stroking my back. I bit my lip. “If she says there’s no secret, then it’s probably true.”

Gabi rolled her eyes in mock annoyance. “Fine, fine. I give up. Maybe she’ll tell you.” She kissed us both then strode off calling out a hello to guests who’d just arrived.

“Alone at last,” he said in my ear.

“Hardly,” I retorted and stepped away. There were too many of our friends here. Anything untoward would be questioned and gossiped about. It was too early for that.

“Sooner or later everyone’s going to find out.”

“I prefer later.”

“Come with me.”

“Not here.”

“I’ve got the key to the loft.”

“No, I can’t. Not tonight, anyway. Jens came home this afternoon.”

“When then?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“Come to my office tomorrow.”

“Maybe.”

“Just come.” Then he kissed my cheek quickly and I heard him behind me, shouting out a greeting to new arrivals.

Time for more of 30 Days, 30 Stories. More fiction. Another scene from a novel I abandoned. I may have to return to it. I rather like this story of people behaving badly.

Story #14: The One I Cannot Have
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“I wish I’d never married her. I wish I’d met you first.”

As soon as he told me how he felt, the words were tatooed in my memory. Sometimes I couldn’t concentrate for hearing his voice say them in my mind. During the day, when I should have been concentrating on my work, I was thinking about Jake and wodnering what he was doing.

At night, we met at my house and pretended to be the married couple that we wished we were. Sometimes we sat on the cool floor of my livingroom and talked about the stories we wanted to write and the books we’d read while over our heads the ceiling fan ticked and whirred. Sometimes we rented foreign films and, curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn between us, watched them without ever thinking that soon Helena would come home and this would be over. Neither of us wanted to consider the future.

Everynight I slept in their bed with him. Sometimes I’d wake with a start from the scent of her perfume and believe that she’d come home early and was on her way up the stairs. My heart would be racing and I’d have to remind myself how many weeks, then days we had until her return. Once I’d calmed down, I’d move closer to Jake and hold him while he slept on. The soft waves of his even breathing would lull me and I’d drift to sleep without waking again until morning.

“Can you meet me at my place later on?”

I shrugged without looking up. I was afraid of seeming too anxious, even now when we both knew how we felt about one another. “I can probably come by.”

He knelt by my table and stroked my knee. “Just say yes.”

“Allright, yes.”

He grinned at me and cupped my face in his hands then kissed
me quickly. I drew back without thinking. I couldn’t help it, I was so used to hiding how I felt for fear that someone, anyone would see and tell Helena.
But Jake didn’t care about our being found out. He touched my hair and said, “Don’t be afraid. . . this is probably the best thing either of us have ever done.”

And just then I believed him.

I didn’t doubt him when he said that he loved me, or that he wished he’d never married Helena. I was in love, I was loved. Nothing else seemed to matter.

Story #19: Feel
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She didn’t remember the drive home. All she remembered was how the resentment eating away at her grew in mammoth proportions. How could she have married a man as irresponsible as Will—someone who’d sign away part of their dream just to get more money from his mother? At one point, Michael began to fill the silence by singing along with the radio. His voice cracked whenever he tried to hit high notes, bringing a smile to Cassie’s lips. What Cassie did remember was turning to Michael as they stopped at a traffic light and asking him if she could spend the night with him. She remembered his stunned silence and then the nervous way he’d looked at her. He’d licked his lips and pressed them together—he wanted to say yes, she knew he did. Damn it—why did his indecision kick in just when she’d decided to shove off the yoke of being Will Castle’s widow?

“Don’t take too long answering—there might not be a second shot,” she’d said, her words coming hot and strong out of her mouth. “Do you want me, or not?”

“I do,” Michael said, his voice just barely audible over REM singing “Losing My Religion”. “I want you so badly I can almost taste you.”

That was what rang through Cassie’s mind as they drove on without speaking. Now she’d taken this step, smudged out the boundaries between tenant and landlord. Had there ever really been one? Ever since he’d turned up on her driveway she’d been dancing around the issue that this was the man she’d loved before she’d even met Will. Ten years ago, she would’ve done anything for Michael if only he’d asked.

By the time they pulled into the driveway of Marlborough Cottage, Cassie was shivering though it had nothing to do with the cold. She hopped out of the car and stalked towards the converted garage. Michael trailed behind her, his footsteps measured. What was the best way to do this? In the car it had seemed so easy to just declare that she wanted to sleep with him. She didn’t wait for him; instead she quickly unlocked the door and then took the steps two at a time to his apartment. Her heart was beating wildly. She knew she ought to slow down, but she couldn’t. One pause too many and she’d lose her nerve. She heard him climb the stairs and her anticipation swelled. She undid her coat and tossed it aside. She unbuttoned her sweater, then thought better and nearly redid them. Then he was standing at the top of the stairs, his blond hair shining in the dim light. His movements were slow, almost measured, as he too removed his vest and scarf. When they were face to face again she tried to ignore the tight expression on his face. She smoothed it away and kissed him, tentatively at first. His lips were soft under hers. When his arms slid around her she pulled him closer and she knew he wanted her, she felt it in the strength of his arms and the slow slide of his hands over the curve of her ass.

“Are you sure?” he murmured in her ear.

Nodding, she stepped back just enough to lead him down the dark hallway to the bedroom. He didn’t resist, there was no longer any doubt in his eyes. And the more she drank him in, the more she remembered the first time they made love in his small studio apartment in Stockholm. She remembered how each time he thrust into her, his mouth grazed her ear. She remembered his ragged breathing, and the murmured words… This was what she wanted. To remember what it felt like to be with someone who loved her, who’d craved her. Ten years and she still remembered the trail of freckles on his left shoulder, the raised scar on his stomach…and when he pulled her to him again and began undressing her, the wet heat growing inside of her made her weak. His smile told her what she already knew—they were in for a long night.

More 30 Days, 30 Stories. More fiction. :) A scene from Maybe Forever.
Day 21: Florence
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The night I think Freya was conceived, Mads and I were in Florence, Italy for a romantic weekend away. We'd left Liv with Eddy and Henrik. It was one of our first weekend trips without her. I loved Florence--it was one of my favourite places in the world. The very first time I came to Europe, I started my trip in Florence and then took the train north until eventually I ended up in London to work. But Florence...every street hid some treasure--a leather shop that made the most beautiful journals...a pasticceria with perfect little confections that made you think you'd died and gone to heaven...churches so wondrous even someone like me who no longer believed in God had a religious experience. I'd wanted to share this with Mads and when he suggested we have a weekend away, I took the lead and booked a three-day trip for us and splurged--taking some of my bonus money so we could stay in an upscale bed and breakfast near the Arno. We spent the first day overwhelmed by all the beauty around us--even with all the other annoying tourists who jostled us--but Mads held my hand and sometimes we'd find deserted streets and slowly stroll and then he'd stop and reel me in, taking my face in his hands and kissing me so deeply the only thing I could sense was our heartbeats in unison and longing streaming through me.

At some point I remember we lost our way. We could not remember which street would lead us back to our bed and breakfast. It was late and we'd had far too much red chianti classico with our bistecca... we ducked down alleys and side streets, looking for the entrance to the house but never finding it and that early spring night...when the air was so warm it felt like summer though the Florentines were still bundled in down jackets... Mads gathered me in his arms in a deserted piazza and kissed me so long and hard my knees buckled. I remember telling him how I wanted him to be the last man I ever made love to... and the smile that spread across his lips--so quick, so intense--made me fall even harder. His hands slid along my hips, gathering the folds of my skirt and spreading my legs with his thigh... I managed to stop him before we went too far... but I was so far gone, every fiber of me attuned to this longing and wanting nothing more than for him to push me against a wall and lock my legs around him so he could take me... but I stopped him and laughed as I straightened my skirt and led him down one twisting street after another until we finally managed to find our little inn.

That night, we hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on our door and we made love until our bodies were sore and too sensitive....and still we wanted more. I remember how we tried to be quiet whenever someone passed our room. I'd bite my lip and try to hold in the brazen longing, Mads buried his face in my neck as his fingers dug into my hips and held me still. The brass bed squeaked and groaned with each thrust... and all I knew was that my body screamed out to be touched and stroked and penetrated. His hair was longer then and I remember how I raked my fingers through those red-gold strands and gripped him and we kept our eyes locked on one another... I came so hard, and a few minutes later so did he...and when afterwards I twined my arms around him and he was murmuring to me in Danish that being inside of me was like coming home, I had this sensation that something monumental had just happened... I wasn't sure what, but I remembered how my body felt so attuned to Mads's and how I almost felt like I could read his thoughts. My body was singing, I love you, I love every inch of you, I love you...and his body responded in kind.

Two months later I found out I was pregnant.