Translator: Schiotka
Editor: Pasadera, JacquelineMonaie
__________________
Closed eyes.
Head bent back.
Long neck.
Parted lips.
BOOM.
The blond mohawk moved violently.
Eyebrows lifted. Eyelids followed.
Brown gaze.
Confident and strong.
Staring.
At you.
Hand moving down the cold, vertical stand.
Slowly.
Lightly.
Gently...
Lips.
Parted again.
Low sound.
Whisper.
Sensual.
Craned neck.
Long fingers. Leaving red marks on the skin.
Sliding down his neck.
To his throat.
Silence.
Staring.
At you.
As if there were only him and you.
No one else.
Silence.
You hear your breath.
Your heartbeat.
As if in slow motion.
Eyes close.
Face grimaces.
Lips open.
Wide.
SCREAM.
____________________
The row before last.
Two seats in shadow.
"He's good."
The man spoke these words as he made a comment in his notebook.
He didn't get a verbal response. Winter glanced at the older figure sitting beside him, his expression saying "didn't I tell you?"
But in those narrowed eyes there was something more.
Coldness.
Superiority.
The man sitting next to him was used to that though. He smiled indulgently, continuing his notetaking.
"The boy can definitely grab your attention," he admitted. "He has a good voice, although most of these guys are better."
"But none of them can pull your attention like he does. None can build that kind of story, that tension. And certainly none can scream like him."
The older man laughed.
"Are you looking for someone who can 'scream'? You, the master of whispering?"
Winter smiled without looking at his companion. Like a fox, with the corner of his mouth.
YOU ARE READING
Echo of the Past
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