Book of Hours
Oct 23, 2001
by BlackRose
Oct 23, 2001
by BlackRose
His kisses are wine, heady and rich, sweet and bitter. Poison and honey on his tongue, flowing like nectar from his lips. A world of depth can be read within each one, shifting like mercury with his moods.
White. Cool. Dry and sharp, leaving a tang upon the taste when he is indifferent.
Blushed. Fragrant and touched with just the hint of sweet, almost contemplative.
Red. Deep and rich, sweet and full. Rarer then the lost pressings of Lea Monde's vinyards and savored that much more.
Cool or warm. Honeyed or bitter. His lips would put the finest bottles of a nobleman's wine cellar to shame, and the things which flow from them - kisses or words - would make drunkards of even the stoutest priests.
