Under the Sycamore: A Savage Red Confession of Devouring Lust
Under the sycamore. Last days of September. Terrace empty. Breeze claws at leaves. My skirt…
Under the sycamore. Last days of September. Terrace empty. Breeze claws at leaves. My skirt…
Sweat drips. Bois de Vincennes pulses under Sunday sun. Sophie runs ahead. Her white shorts…
Assia's stall reeks of fresh hay and musk. Hector's arms crush me against his chest.…
The abandoned field stretched under the Auvergne sun, remnants of old equestrian obstacles crumbling in…
Heatwave of 2018. Air thick, suffocating. No sleep. Dawn barely whispers. I slip naked into…
Bottom of the trail to Lac de l’Entrechat. Delphine and Frank. Two years apart. Hearts…
That morning, like every damn morning, I slaved in the corner tea-room. July heat choked…
Heart hammers in the vet's cold waiting room. His eyes, raw grief over his dead…