The Tiger

When he thought on the affair he always thought of the colour red. Red, the colour of unquenchable passion. He remembered those nights feverently. When she had purred so gently in his arms and then her lust unleashed with the prowess of an untamed animal. Rose stained kisses on his chest. Crimson streaks down his back. Desperate hands knotted through scarlet hair. Ecstatic limbs casting dancing shadows in the moonlight. White sheets falling and sighing against the tangle of rouge desire. And then her sultry breath on his neck, in his ear “Liam…”. And he his eyes would hungrily devour her voluptuous figure in the afterglow. And his breath would stagger, knowing that he could never hope to pick this English rose. They were from two different worlds and could never be. All his affluence, his fame could never hope to buy him the woman he truly loved. Oh but for those nights he held her affections and she held his heart, always.

(Prompts: stereotype map, Liam Neeson)

by Hayley Rutherford


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