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Vignette
By
Olivia K Goode
She drew one knuckle down his forearm, her touch the barest whisper upon
his skin, tracing the thick veins that laced along the taut muscles. His
pulse throbbed harder in answer. The hair of his arm stood on end as
well, almost as if reaching out to meet her touch, aching to return her
caress.
“Even after all these years,” Vincent said, his voice thick with
awakening, “you still have more power in your little pinkie than all the
stars in the heavens.” He opened his eyes, his gaze instinctively
finding her own.
“Happy anniversary, Vincent.”
“Happy anniversary, Catherine.”
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