His voice drew me more than anything. Rough as an oyster shell and deep as the wind off the sea, it shivered me the first time I heard it, goosebumps rising on my skin. They tried to hang him once, in Charles Town, but he was no goose, to be broken and cooked for Sunday supper.
When he touches me, his hands are like driftwood, smooth on the backs, rough like beach sand on the palms and fingers. They're as scarred as his voice, from ropes and sails, from fishing hooks and thieves knives. Now he does the knifing and no one tries to stop him.
Broad shoulders, narrow waist, legs like mainmasts, all of these things I know. His hair slips through my fingers like otter's sleek fur. His too long nose and full lips I feel during hard kisses that shake me to my devil-owned soul.
Learning my craft took my sight, the magic leeching it away, but I know him, inside and out. Others fear him for his skill with a sword or his imposing physical presence. I need not see him to be terrified of him, for he has one power no one else holds over me.
He makes me want to be human again.
(This snippet tied for third place in the Dark and Desirable contest from the Erotic Romance Writers Forum) http://veinglory.8.forumer.com/index.php
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