Snow Falls Softly

By Chloe Thurlow

It is the night when Jools feels as if she is gripped in the hands of destiny, a night of uncontrollable passion, a love so deep it feels as if her soul is bursting. It begins to snow as Josh takes her in his arms and kisses her eyes, her neck. He draws her top over her head and her breath catches as his long kiss caresses the hollow of her throat. In two days, Josh will marry another woman unless Jools can convince him to stay or the snow that falls and keeps falling prevents him from going.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chloe Thurlow
• Release date: Feb 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311020338

Chloe Thurlow

Writing is a sickness, an ailment, an addiction. When I’m not writing, I’m thinking about what I have just written and, when I do go to bed, I lay sleeplessly thinking about what I am going to write when I get up and start again next day.I am a night person, an insomniac, the girl at the bar who looks like she should have gone home and maybe has no home to go to. I compose my work in the dead hours between two and six while the city sleeps and the night planes follow the Thames into London, where I was born.When I do sleep, I sleep badly – in spite of the magnets under my mattress that are supposed to orientate my body north to south so the dragon lines pass through the invisible portal at the top of my skull and down to my feet, my best feature, according to my ex-boyfriend.I have written 5 erotic novels including the best-seller "A Girl's Adventure" and my Mother doesn't speak to me because she believes she was parodied in my autobiographical "The Secret Life of Girls." At least Daddy loves me.

Book preview

Snow Falls Softly

Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion.

James Joyce

He kisses my eyes. My lips. My neck. He slowly draws my top over my head and my breath catches as his long kiss caresses the hollow of my throat. I feel the elastic on my bra stretch. I hear the snap of the catch, the pop of the button at the back of my skirt, the crackle of the zipper. My skirt falls in a pool about my feet and I step from the folds.

My heart drums and my blood races as his fingers reach for the strips of silk at the side of my panties. He eases the material over the curve of my bottom and I sigh as if relieved of a terrible burden. I am naked and only naked are we completely ourselves.

His lips continue their journey, roaming over the swell of my breasts and down in a line to my belly button, which he licks as I recall licking sherbet from my hand as a little girl. That's how I feel that instant. Naked after a bath. A little girl wrapped in a big fluffy towel as I am wrapped now in the moment.

He drops to his knees and nuzzles through the garden of my pubic hair. I stroke the back of his head as his tongue dives between the lips of my vagina into the pool of my liquids and secrets. I am a lake, drenched, sopping, overflowing. I can smell the subtle waft of my own arousal. Warm juices run down my thighs. His hands cup my bottom and I have the odd desire to feel their weight, to feel a flash of pain to focus this agony of pleasure. I feel proud, confused, ashamed. I am floating. My entire body has become one erogenous zone. If longing makes the heart grow fonder, I have longed for this moment until my heart was ready to burst.

His tongue runs in a line up the length of my body. We kiss again, my taste on his lips, my body folded into his embrace. He wrestles from my arms, stands back and removes his clothes. I watch as he places them over the chair beside the desk with its clutter of papers, a cup from Starbucks, an iPad with its blue points of light. I wonder if guilt has intensified my feelings and observations. Everything in my mind is sharp like a razor. Josh Caton is forbidden fruit. I am forbidden fruit. Was it coincidence or the motions of the moon that has put us together here, now, like it was meant to be?

He is naked. I admire him like a work of art, a sculpture by Michelangelo. He is six feet, broad with strong legs, large hands and a mesh of bronze hair on his chest. His cock stands straight like an arrow pointing the way, like a lifeline thrown from a boat to a drowning man. Or woman. The sunset is silver in the cold November sky, the light in his office darkening with the dusk.