Page 13 of West Wind

And said, ‘Annie dear, please won’t you⁠—”

“Shelley!”

“’Screw us,’” he finished, in spite of her objection.

“That’s disgusting.” She tried to keep a straight face, but the corners of her full mouth twitched as if she were suppressing a smile. “The real Shelley⁠—”

“I’m real.”

“You know what I mean,” she interrupted. “The real Shelley wrote real poetry. ‘If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; if I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; a wave to pant beneath thy power…’”

“Hold it, hold it.” He held up both hands in protest. “If you’re going to use words like ‘pant beneath thy power’ I’m going to have to kiss you.” He leaned forward, moving closer to her.

“You will not,” she said, trying to sound indignant but succeeding only in sounding drunk.

“Give me one good reason why I won’t.”

She also leaned forward, placing her face mere inches from his. Her eyes twinkled, her nostrils flared, and he noticed details he’d admired before—the lushness of her mouth, the way her hair shone in the firelight. He wondered what she’d look like in a pretty dress that fit her properly, and realized he’d never know.

“Because I’ve already had a bit too much to drink, and you’re a gentleman,” she said as seriously as she could manage. “A gentleman never takes advantage of a lady when she’s... not herself.”

“Nobody’s accused me of being a gentleman for a very long time.” He drank from the bottle. “But if that’s the case, I’ll have to get good and drunk myself.”

They sat there as the stars came out, Annie spouting bits and pieces of poetry and Shelley answering with limericks of his own. The widow had put aside her earlier resolve and taken another small drink or two from the bottle while it was still warm from the touch of his lips.

By the time the sky was truly dark, and there was only the light of the fire and the stars above them, the bottle was empty. Annie laughed at everything he said, whether it was funny or not. He was drunk. Not tipsy, not mellow, but gloriously plastered.

When he rested his head against the saddle he demanded a song. “A damn good one,” he ordered.

She smiled, the fire lighting up one half of her face which was suddenly golden and devilishly angelic. “I might not be able to write poetry, but I do have a talent.”

He didn’t move as she began to unbutton several tiny buttons from her neck down. The collar fell away to reveal silky skin and the top of her lacy chemise. Then she unbuttoned the bottom of the skirt up to her knees, revealing a white petticoat, full and ruffled.

He waited. She was going to come to him and...

Annie did not come to him. She stood and loosened her hair, letting it spill around her shoulders and down her back. The sway of her hips as she looked down at him surprised him, as did what came next.

She hummed as she danced around him, tossing back her head and baring her white throat. “This is my favorite part,” she said huskily. “Carmen. I performed it last year at the Opera Comedie. Some of the critics detested it, calling it unfit for the family theater. Women smoking on stage!” She stopped suddenly.

“Can I have a cigar? A cigarette?”

He was too drunk to care where or what she’d sung. All he wanted at the moment was to hear her sing for him. He rolled over and grabbed a long, thin cigar from the saddlebag near his head. She plucked it from his fingers and began to dance again, lighting the cigar in the campfire.

Oh, holy hell…

Giving it all she had, Annabelle danced around the fire and sang to Shelley. For Shelley. She lifted her skirts to her knees and spun around until she was dizzy. She continued to dance long after she’d stopped singing, puffing on the thin cigar and blowing the smoke all around her so that she danced in an ethereal blue haze. Her breath came hard and fast before she dropped, exhausted, to her knees at his side.

“Do you still want to kiss me?” she offered.

He nodded. “I’m afraid I do, darlin’.”

She leaned over and pressed her lips against his expecting a sweet kiss with puckered lips and a little smack, but Shelley wrapped his arms around her neck and held her there, parting her lips with his tongue. She didn’t pull away, but opened her mouth to the new sensation. No one had ever kissed her like this. It made her feel warm and tingly, like the tequila had. It was nice, different, made her feel as if she could lie in his arms forever, their lips locked together, their tongues dancing as surely as she’d danced around the fire for him.

She pulled away, breathless, staring into his hazel eyes. She couldn’t discern their color with only the light of the fire, but she knew they were hazel. She’d seen those eyes bore into her.

“I don’t know why I like you so much, Shelley.” She rested her head on his chest. She listened to his heartbeat, a comforting sound. To have another heartbeat so close...

His hand rested in her hair, and before the moon was at its zenith, they slept.