“Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.”

-Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven, 1845

I stood in the kitchen. Out the window the sky was gray, small empty branches on the trees shook and fell. I felt a chill. Behind the clouds, a faint red color--it must have been nearly five o’clock in the evening. The sun was sinking lower, and through the window its last breath of light. Drip-drop, dip-drop. My attention shifted to the coffee emptying into the pot. The passage of time, like an hour glass. I listened. The drip-drop turned into tick-tock, tick-tock. Time would have stood still except for that sound.

The noise of tires on gravel broke my fixation, then a car door closing. Outside the small house I could hear footsteps soft on the concrete porch. I started my way down the hall and toward the door. A gentle knock. I reached for the knob to turn it, another knock just before I pulled the door open. I smiled at her and she stood there, dressed warmly, a few strands of auburn hair over her face, misplaced by the wind. Her hand was soft as I took it, pulling her in.

I put my arms around her. Her cheek was cold as mine touched it. My arms felt the crisp cold of her parka as I held her. Embrace. Cathartic. I pushed the garment off her shoulders and took it from her.

“A little over-dressed, according to the rules, aren’t we?” I asked, my voice almost in a whisper as my eyes locked to hers. She looked down, just before nodding her head.

Purple. Her top was such a nice shade of purple. Or was it plum? Or was it mulberry? A long-sleeved crewneck. I don’t know why I fixated on something so trivial. It’s funny the things a person remembers about a moment. Whatever color it was, it was the perfect shade against her skin as I lifted the hem and she raised her arms and I pulled it from her. Her bra, simple, sheer, black. I unclasped it and pulled it from her chest. A small gold necklace remained; its heart-shaped pendant clung just below her neck. I decided to leave it.

Kneeling in front of her, my hands on each of her hips, I kissed low against her stomach before my fingers slipped into the waist of her jeans and unfastened them. She put her palms against the wall as I slid the denim down her legs. I lifted her left leg, slightly, my fingers felt the brown leather grain and rubber sole of her cute little Chelsea boot. Double-stitched and well-made, I noticed, as I slipped it from her foot. She bent her knee slightly, as I set the shoe aside with a soft thud. My hand behind her knee, my palm sliding down her calf, the way her skin felt—visions of the moment coming back in flashes—my other hand pulling the bottom hem of her jeans off her foot, first one, then the other, until she stood in her panties and socks.

Socks were against the rules. I decided to let her keep them. The pink, purple, and white stripes were cute, and hardwood floors were cool on her feet, even in the summer; if her body were to be made uncomfortable it would be my doing, not the weather. Panties were against the rules, too, and she was not keeping those. The tips of my fingers found their way just inside. Sheer and black, they matched her bra, and they were to soon join it on the floor as I slid the thin fabric off her hips and down her thighs until it fell around her ankles. Her left foot stepped out as I nudged my shoulder under her knee, pushing her leg wide.

I held my mouth close to her pussy. I took in her scent and felt its heat against my chin as my lips kissed her mound. It was smooth, and I caught the bitter-sweet taste of lotion against my tongue and knew it was freshly shaved. Her ass pressed against the wall as my mouth traveled lower, tasting her lips. Slowly, small, soft, kisses up and down, then longer, drawn-out licks, tasting her with the tip of my tongue. My palm held against her ribs, she gasped, and I felt her tremble, as I pressed my face against her, taking her clit into my mouth. I listened to her moans becoming more frequent and protracted as my wet tongue hungrily lapped against her.

“Don’t try to stop it. Stand still and let me make your pussy cum. Cum for me, Erin,” I breathed, in a low voice, between savoring her now-swollen clit.

Her fidgeting stopped for a moment, and I felt her exhale as I continued. I pushed my thumb into her, stretching her open while my middle finger worked its way between her cheeks, the pad of it rubbing a circle against her sphincter. She began to moan, which turned into an incoherent babble as I felt her abdomen begin to convulse against my forehead, the weight of her body becoming heavier against my shoulder as her knee slightly gave way.

Slowing the rhythmic movement of my jaw, I felt her orgasm subside as she began to regain her composure. My lips broke contact with her flesh for the first time, and I slid her leg from over my shoulder. Her foot returned delicately to the floor, and I leaned forward once more, kissing her mound, letting it end the way it began, before I stood up. My chest against hers caused her back to press against the wall and her hand reached for mine, our fingers intertwined, as I subtracted a lingering kiss from her lips.