Flash Fiction 9/11
The Language of the Fan
Jason held his cheroot to the side and blew a thin stream of blue smoke into the garden. The whiny stringed instruments from the ball couldn't hide the crunch of feet on the path.
"What are you doing out here?" He demanded hoarsely.
Trenton would put his huskiness down to the
smoke, or maybe the bastard would know it was emotion.
"I wasn't flirting with her."
"I know the language of the fan, My Lord. She wanted you to meet her in the gardens."
"I'm only interested in meeting you." Trenton D'Arcy swung Jason around by the arm. Jase allowed the cheroot to slip from his fingers and stamped it out. His hands landed on
shoulders as the hope of the match making mamas took his mouth in a torrid kiss
that left them breathless.
Quickly, he recovered his resentment and pushed
away, his prick a hard ache inside his white satin evening breeches. "Damn
you! Why do you do this?"
"Because I love you."
He winced at the bald statement. "You should love some dainty demoiselle who can provide you with children and social grace. I can give you nothing."
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Cyril J. Michael: http://
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