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His mind was full of her now, tasting her breath, one hand with a fist full of hair not to hurt or to control, just to increase the feeling of contact...and the other roving, almost self propelled. The curve of her neck became the focus of his lips, a brush, a bite, a taste and all the while his hand, free to explore, grew bolder. The curve of her breast, the hollow of her hip and the soft, yeilding flesh of her buttock, sometimes barely a brush, the merest of touches, sometimes a pulling, almost. We returned to the sofa and just sat there in silence for some time. Then Mom started telling me about a blizzard from her childhood; they had had a wood-burning stove then and had kept it red hot. They had had to tack up blankets over the windows on the windward side of the house, because the fierce winds had sifted snow right through the tiny cracks around the windows. As she spoke, it became obvious that this was one of her favorite memories, probably because it had brought the family closer. More

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