Eve Lilas Fiction Author

The Bridal Suite
By Eve Lilas

He would serve her in any way she wished. On the floor, he would slowly dish out the delights he possessed, as if they picnicked in a shady summer glade. He would offer up rich morsels spicy with ethnic flavors, and as she lay watching, he would dance for her like an Indian Paintbrush on a slender jade stalk, nude and swaying in the gentle breeze.

Or in the warmth of her bath, her skin moist and damp with perfumed steam, her rosy peaks lending color to the translucent bubbles. There he would offer her pale grapes and tidbits of sweetmeats. He would quench her thirst with deep gulps of shimmering salty fluids and he would serve her by dusting her lips with powdered sugar and rinsing her hair in sparkling wine.

The fare would be more heavenly still if she were reclined on the gold brocade sofa, her silken arms and legs exposed for his greedy eyes. There he would slip in firm full bodied flavors, past the delicate pink folds, to deeply satisfy her cravings.

But the best of all luck would be to serve her in their big bed with its smooth lacy linens. The gilded bedspread forgotten, its fabric would slip ungracefully onto the handmade Tuscan tiles as a pool of molten copper. There he too could gain sustenance tasting the sweetness of her pearlescent skin as she feasted on cool crisp lengths of pale fruit flesh. The quiet slurping and mewling of pleasure invading their privacy alone as their hunger and need subsided.

The mellow sheen of her full upper arm caught his eye as she reached for what he offered. Her pale cream peignoir set off the flames of red in her long auburn hair. The soft folds of sheer fabric called to all his senses. Awakening desire and something more – something primitive and old. It stirred him in places long silent with shelved emotions and he could almost hear the breaking release as wave on wave of need and want, now free, rushed to fill the empty void in his head, in his heart and in his groin.

He knew her legs would feel like finest silk wrapped around the roughness of his naked thighs and his longing for her almost pushed free a cry of desperation from his tongue moistened lips.

As she leaned forward to absorb the scents and textures of the feast before her, his eyes strayed to her low bodice front. Opaque, milky skin invited him to look lower still. To dip his vision into the cleavage of full lush breasts and inhale the scents of this beautiful new bride. To delve his fingers into perspiration dampened private places meant only for his eyes - redolent with their classic perfumes of drowsy vanilla and musky woman.

He popped the cork on their bottle of Champagne and placed it back into the chilled bucket. It would be for afterwards. Once the rich erotic moments had passed and both were satisfied beyond measure. The time to celebrate the eternal union of their lives would come after the union of their ripe bodies, of their very souls, quaking now with deepest desire.

She touched him then. Her whisper soft fingers were cool, yet still they blazed a trail of heat from the back of his hand, and up to rest lightly on the black wool sleeve of his formal jacket. Her electricity sizzled through to his skin and sent aftershocks throughout his now rigid body. Lovely deep blue eyes met his passion glazed brown ones. “Thank you for delivering our wedding supper,” she said with a bride's shy blush. “My husband has your tip.”

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