Pandora

by Susan Stokes-Chapman

And so, this hatred she now feels eats away at her heart like a maggot, fat and pulsing, gorging on that resentment so long buried deep.

We, as human beings, can invariably be split into two types: those who believe in magic, and those who do not.

And then, then he is kissing her. The shock of his mouth on hers brings her up short. As Edward’s lips brush against hers she lets her own part, she tastes ale on his tongue, and then she feels herself sinking into him, the hurt and anger shifting into something else. He smells of leather, of soap, and that heady mix does something to her, sends tantalising tingles to nerve endings she does not even know she has. The hem of his shirt teases her wrist and Dora puts a hand up underneath it, runs her palm against the plane of his flat stomach, caressing the smooth skin, fascinated by the way he shivers under her touch. Moving upward her nail grazes his nipple and he sucks in his breath, kisses her harder, and she kisses him back, losing herself in the intoxicating feel of him.