One Fifty-Five
by Miss Elise
~*~

His footsteps were muffled on the carpet as he made his way down the dim
hallway. He eased the cuff of his shirt back and checked his watch, watching
the silent sweep of the second hand. Almost time.

She would be waiting, for she had promised. He could almost taste her soft,
perfumed flesh against his tongue now, slightly salty under the wet-velvet
stroke. Almost time.

The room would be candlelit, naturally. She would look like a length of gold,
twined amid the pillows, capped with fire, waiting. Almost time.

He paused before the door and as the watch hand slipped toward 1:55 a.m., he
raised his hand and brushed his fingers over the door number. 155.

He could smell her from here; even the scent of the candles spilled under the
door and into the hallway. He breathed in deep, closing his eyes, fingers
warming the gold numbers on the door.

It was time.

THE END

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MissElise ~ MissElise@aol.com ~
http://members.aol.com/etobler/home.htm
Without fantasies, we are dead. ~Malcolm McDowell
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