by Eden Royce
The Snow Maiden
Eden Royce
Copyright Notice
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright© 2012 Eden Royce
Editor: Michael LaRocca
Proofreader: Novellette Whyte
Cover Artist: Nancy Grayson Donahue
Published by Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any e-books away.
Publisher Note:
This is a work of fiction and may contain descriptions of adult situations, explicit language, and scenarios. This story is for adults only. Please keep this out of the hands of people under the age of 18 years old.
31 Days of Steamy Mocha:
The Snow Maiden
I hurried to the table in back of the coffee shop as fast as my legs in their four-inch spike heels allowed me without spilling my cinnamon mocha. “Hey, Jenn. Sorry I’m late. Conference call ran over.”
“Hey, girl.” My best friend bit at her lip, leaving an edge of red on her teeth. “You gonna be mad at me if I cancel on you tonight?”
Even though I cringed at the thought of spending Friday night alone – again – I kept my face impassive and looked straight ahead at the dark suits, almost identical to mine, scrambling by outside. “Depends on why you’re canceling. We were going to try the new Asian fusion place.”
Her uncomfortable tone, blanketed by a thick, fluffy Southern drawl, crawled around my ears. “Um. Something came up.”
“Was it a penis?”
“Claire!”
“What? I’m pretty sure I’m right. Right?”
“Well, what happened was…”
Oh God. This was gonna be big. Significant. Big, significant penis. I was already picturing my phallus-free evening: A glass of wine while I sat on my couch and watched reruns of Frasier. Jee-zus. I imagined having sex with Kelsey Grammer’s sitcom alter ego. Even in the heat of passion, he would call my pussy a vulva. I shuddered and pulled myself back to Jennifer’s high-pitched explanation.
“…I’d get to wear my new dress. The red one, remember?”
I remembered. It was a strappy little thing my D cup breasts would laugh at. Plus, Artesian was the place to be seen at and it was right up Jennifer’s alley – tiny portions served on tiny plates by tiny people. Give me a diner burger and a side of crinkle fries any day.
As usual, Jennifer took my silence for acquiescence. “Anyway, it was a last minute thing. Oh, please don’t be mad.”
I wasn’t mad at her for canceling at the last minute. But I was mad at her for believing that asshole wanted to bring her to a work event. His first and possibly second choices had fallen through, and he was trying to save face by bringing someone. I wanted to slap her silly for being so… well, silly. “No, it’s fine.”
“See, he’s been assigned to–”
“I said it was okay, Jenn. Don’t worry about it. I’ll live.” I always did. Just once, I wanted her to choose hanging out with me over a date.
“Thanks, girl. You’re the best.” Apparently, I wasn’t going to be her choice tonight. I looked at my watch and groaned. It was almost time for my appointment with Dr. Lawrence.
#
By nature, I’m not a calm person. Type A, all the way. I stay awake nights, thinking of what I did or need to do. I go into the office early, work through lunch, stay late.
At least I used to until I burned out. More like a flaming jet crash, smoking fuselage that looks tiny up in the air, but grows to gargantuan sheets of white-hot metal as it reaches the unsuspecting earth. The wreckage didn’t resemble who I thought I was: a tireless wonder woman. I felt more like Aquaman, useless until someone needed to talk to fish.
I’d been making the company my life since I was twenty-five. Now, ten years later, my life consisted of meeting with a shrink two hours a week and wondering if getting sex on a regular basis could have slowed my burnout. I hadn’t made time for a real relationship since I started working. Blamed it on being too driven to do anything boring like sit at long, leisurely dinners and answer questions about my family, hometown, and outside interests.
The few times I did date, if I was horny enough, I might force a smile and ask if he wanted to go back to my place. Most times, I had to take charge of my own orgasm. Fine. I could handle that responsibility, too. Senior Executive in Charge of Climax. It was the delegating I had trouble with.
“Claire!”
“What?” Dr. Lawrence’s sharp tone yanked me from the bitter memory.
“We aren’t making much progress. Your tension is obvious. None of my relaxation techniques are working.”
“How can they? I can’t even go to my favorite restaurant because it’s one my boss takes clients to.” No offense to Dr. Lawrence, but yoga and meditation weren’t helping. I focused on doing them perfectly instead of just doing.
“You need a change of scenery. Get on completely unfamiliar territory.”
“Like where? Deciding on a vacation spot would be stress enough.”
The doctor rubbed the bridge of his aquiline nose. “I know. That’s why I want you to stay at the Surf for a while. It’s right on the water. The sound of the ocean will be soothing.” He reached into his desk for a tan card with the words “Surfside Condos” embossed in hunter green copperplate. “My good friend runs it and sits on the board. We went to school together.”
“High school?”
“No.” He shifted in his leather swivel chair. And I knew.
“Ah,” I said. “He’s a shrink too. Feel better knowing he’s keeping an eye on me?”
“Yes, he’s a psychiatrist as well. I will feel better because you’ll have someone around if you need anything.”
“Like what? A sedative?”
“I told you before.” He tossed my well-padded file onto the spotless cherry desk. “You don’t need medication. There’s nothing wrong with you a little fun and enjoyment won’t fix.”
“Then why do I pay you so much?”
“Cheaper than a condo.”
I gave him a chilly look as I stood and took the card.
“Where are you going? We still have fifteen minutes left in our session.”
“That’s enough social interaction for one day. I’m going to get a drink.”
“But you can’t–”
“Don’t worry, I’ll look up your shrink buddy.” I glanced at the business card: David Stroker. “Dr. Stroker? Good God. At least it isn’t Dr. Finger.”
#
Taxicab exhaust hovered in the air as I entered the restaurant alone. I told the hostess at Musashi it would only be one for dinner. She looked at me as though I were a leper and suggested – strongly – that I sit at the bar. I toyed with the idea of telling her curly hair looks ridiculous on Asians, but I decided against it and mentally patted myself on the back for my restraint.
At the bar, I had a chance to take in the restaurant. It was beautiful: the circular bar was in the center of the restaurant and all tables branched out from that nucleus. Crafted in dark wood, the reflective tops of the intimate tables caressed the candlelight. The bar’s stools had padded seats and backs, an invitation to linger and enjoy several perfectly poured drinks.
I ordered a glass of Snow Maiden and sat as far from the crowd as possible. I wanted to see people, but not necessarily interact with them.
I’d o
rdered my second glass when he came in and sat in the seat next to me. The slight scent of his cologne wrapped its curly tendrils around me and I found myself understanding Jennifer’s decision tonight. He smiled as he sat down and I could almost hear the “ting” of a toothpaste commercial. He ordered and looked out across the restaurant until the bartender set a wine glass of milky liquid in front of me.
“What is that?” he asked, his interest evident. His voice was low and resonant and its vibration seduced my ears. For the first time in recent memory, I was jealous of a glass of wine.
“It’s sake,” I said.
“Sake?” My heart thumped when he used the Japanese pronunciation. “It’s white and … opaque.”
“Yes, it is,” I responded, feeling superior. “It’s unfiltered.” I smiled, lips closed, as I turned the stem of the glass around and around in my fingers. “Ever tried it?”
“No, I’ve had sake, but not like that.”
I reached over his forearm and grabbed a straw from the black lacquer holder on the bar. I dipped it into my glass and when it filled, held my finger over the top opening. “Here. Try it.”
He continued to look at me, unblinking, even as the bartender set his bourbon and branch in front of him. Heat moved inside me like a lazy kitten, yawning and stretching as it woke from its extended slumber. He shifted on the stool toward me, his eyes searching my face for something I wasn’t sure I was ready to reveal. The muted light gave his eyes an intensity that made my heart thud. Unable to hold his direct gaze, I dropped my eyes to his fingers around the old-fashioned glass. They stroked the curves of the cut crystal and the kitten woke fully, watching the rhythmic movement.
“No?” I asked as I shrugged in what I hoped was a careless fashion. “Okay.” I moved the straw toward my lips.
“Wait,” he said, too loudly, even for the busy restaurant. He continued, more softly, “Wait. I’ll try it.”
“You sure? No pressure.”
I’d only whispered the last part, but he’d heard. His eyes glittered as he spoke. “I’m sure.” But instead of taking the offering I had prepared in the straw, he took the glass from my hand and brought it to his lips. He swirled the creamy liquid around in the glass as he swallowed.
After what seemed like an eternity, I asked, “Well?”
“Strong, sharp, with an unexpected sweetness. I like it.”
It bothered me that something I enjoyed pleased him. “I’m so glad.”
“Now you have to taste something I choose.”
“I don’t have to do anything.” My inner cynic, born of so many bad dates and even worse lovers, had to be heard.
The smile eased across his face again. “You do if you want to be fair.”
“Newsflash. Hate to tell you, but life isn’t fair.”
“No, but it can be fun.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
He leaned an elbow on the bar, causing his shirt to stretch over an impressive set of shoulders, strong and solid, without being bulky. When I looked up, he was watching me observe him. To his credit, he didn’t comment. “Why wouldn’t you know? You seem pretty together.”
“That is exactly the reason. Men don’t like ‘together’ women. They like nutcases without anything going for themselves except a closet full of clothes that are a size too small. They even…” My rant died away as his fingers found my earlobe and pressed with a feather touch, securing the tiny hoop. I shuddered as he trailed the tip of his index finger over the taut, sensitive flesh behind my earring before returning his hand to his pocket.
“It was coming out,” he explained. “I tightened it for you.”
“I’m not used to anyone doing anything for me.” I rubbed my ear, trying to erase the tingling, but it was no use. My skin felt hot and tight, as if he’d kissed me there. The thought of his lips, with their soft friction on my flesh, made a stream I’d thought long dry begin to flow. I squirmed in my seat at the unexpected moisture and wished I’d worn hose in addition to the thin, microfiber bikini panties.
He brushed a drop of pearlescent wine from the back of my hand. “Why not?”
“I… Well, I get it done faster.”
“Faster isn’t always better.”
“I like knowing things are done, so I don’t have to worry about them anymore.”
“You shouldn’t worry at all.”
I snorted. “Yeah, I’ll give up worrying for Lent.”
“No, really. It causes undue stress and wrinkles.” He reached toward my face and I couldn’t move as the backs of his fingers danced over my cheek. My face burned.
“I’m sure I already have wrinkles.”
“You have beautiful skin.”
“It isn’t–”
He leaned close, his mouth a gasp away from mine. “Just say, ‘Thank you.’”
My throat constricted. His scent, his presence was all around me. Each movement he made was relaxed and easy. It was self-assurance that was far from being arrogant. It was a confidence imbued with the knowledge he could handle any issue that might arise. I breathed him in again, slowly this time, savoring the crisp, earthy scent. He radiated heat, foiling the best efforts of the restaurant’s ceiling fans. My nipples tightened and the lips of my pussy seeped fluid.
I pressed my legs together in an attempt to stem the flow of moisture, but I ended up pinching my protruding clit between my thighs, which made me shudder. My ‘thank you’ was a whisper breathed into his mouth.
“My pleasure.”
He signaled the bartender and spoke in a low tone I couldn’t hear above the busy restaurant. The smaller man returned and set three miniature martini glasses between us before disappearing. “Now for yours.” He moved closer to me until our legs touched, my thighs lined up between his, and he placed his arm around the back of my chair.
I shook my head. “I can’t handle three more drinks.” I was already overheated, my breasts weighty and full. My nipples ached, throbbing in time to the heartbeat pounding between my legs. The pulsing made my pussy feel empty, made it crave the thickness I could feel through his jeans.
He poured the contents of the first glass into the second. “It’s only two drinks. But you can have a little taste of each.” He held the glass to my mouth and I wet my lips on the clear, sweet liquid. “What does it taste like?” he asked.
“Mmmm. Like a perfect café mocha,” I said. “Amazing.”
“I aim to please. Ready for the last one?” He slid his fingers over the small of my back, exposed by the low waistline of my suit skirt. I bit back a moan.
I eyed the final glass. Its pink liquid bubbled and gave off a steady stream of gossamer smoke. “Uh, it looks scary.”
“It isn’t. If you try it, I’ll do something nice for you.”
“Like what?” I asked, already reaching for the glass.
“Whatever you want.”
The drink fizzed down my throat, taking with it a sweet-sharp flavor I didn’t recognize. “Oh, wow. That’s good. What is it?”
“Dragon fruit liqueur. It’s considered an aphrodisiac in some parts of the world.”
“I don’t need an aphrodisiac,” I said. “Do you want to join me at my place?”
“No.” He smiled at my look of shock. “I don’t think you should have to wait for what you want this time.” He traced the hem of my skirt with warm fingertips before he slid them under the fabric. I was shocked at his audacity, but I didn’t move away. Instead, I watched the deliberate progression of his hand.
“You have great legs.”
I didn’t need to be instructed again. “Thank you.”
He smoothed his palm over my thigh and gave it a gentle, firm squeeze. I lifted my eyes to his and found him watching me. This time, I didn’t turn away from their intensity. It made him bolder and he stroked upward, tracing the hem of my panties. “I’ll bet these are red.”
“They’re black.” It was getting harder to keep my voice even. His hands glided over my skin like warm satin and I shuddere
d.
“Mmm. I’m surprised.”
Tremors took possession of my thighs and refused all my attempts to stop them. “Why? You’re supposed to wear black underwear with a black skirt.”
“You don’t strike me as a woman who does what she’s supposed to.” His eyes captured mine and held them, gauging my reaction as he ran his palm over my sparse curls.
My response gushed out. “Ah… I don’t always.”
He brushed his lips over mine, rewarding me for my answer. I parted my lips to deepen the contact, but his mouth moved, whispered against my skin. “Good. That would have disappointed me.”
A couple walked up to order a drink at the bar. I tensed and tried to straighten up and tug at my skirt. He leaned over me and shielded my lap from any curious gazes. “Don’t move.” His tone was lulling, hypnotic. He pulled the damp panties away from my crotch, careful to avoid my steaming center. “They’re not paying attention.” His fingertips grazed my clit, out from its hood due to his adept ministrations. “I am.”
His fingers moved down to my inner thigh and kneaded the tense muscles. He palmed me through the saturated crotch of my panties. His murmur of approval reached my ears as I stiffened and looked around. “Easy,” he coaxed. No one seemed to notice what seemed to be two lovers engaged in intimate conversation.
I sank into the chair and let him tend to my aching slit. He stroked along the leg of my panties, dipped in to tap along my swollen flesh. His cock leaped against my outer thigh and I moved to stroke it. He pressed against my hand for a moment, then breathed into my ear, “Let’s make this about you.”
“No, no.” I mouthed it, but he understood my need. I wanted to come and he was taking his sweet time. His incredibly sweet time. I grabbed at his wrist as I squirmed. “Let me…”
His smile dawned, smooth as sips of cappuccino foam. “You don’t have to work for it. Let me give it to you.” His lips plucked at the thin gold chain at my neck and passion wove over me like a tapestry, intricate and beautiful, engulfing me in layers of bliss.
