‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
This author was working, keyboard and mouse;
The coffee was hot, so she sipped it with care,
While deciding what colour to make her heroine’s hair.
The hero of course, was tall, dark, and handsome;
But what about a name, and maybe, profession?
Billionaire or Duke, Cowboy or Seal?
The fantasies possibilities hold endless appeal
When plotting stories that matter,
And make readers’ hearts patter.
Word after word laid down in a flash;
Later she’ll go back to edit and slash:
Moonlight outlined the curve of her brest breast—No.
He traced a fingertip along her jaw. “Let’s take it slow.”
She laughed, and stepped back. “Oh, no, my dear,
I thought I made clear;
I choose the pace, slow or quick,
You follow my lead, my dear darling Nick.”
He laughed, and grabbed her. “I like this game.”
Then he grinned and murmured her name:
“Now, Tasha, my dancer, my sweet prancing vixen,
On your command, or Cupid’s, I’ll do your biddin’;
Just promise you’ll catch me, should I fall;
And to you my love, I’ll give all.”
“As the seasons change and fall leaves fly,
I promise my darling Nick, you are my sky;
And my ocean blue;
There is no one else on this earth for me, but you.”
Her eyes twinkled as she offered him proof,
‘Neath the star-spangled sky on that warm summer roof.
Crickets and bullfrogs hoppin’ around,
Filling the night with their chorusing sound.
From earlobe to lip, knee to foot,
His lips skimmed a skin-tingling route.
Closing her eyes, she arched her back,
Whispered, “Oh, Nick, you’re on the right track.”
He looked up, his brown gaze merry;
“I aim to please, my sweet Cherie.”
With deft fingers, he untied the bow
In her hair, to let it go
Falling like a silken sheath
Over her shoulders, a shimmering wreath.
He had a strong face, and firm, hard belly;
He was broad and lean, no bowl of jelly:
He was thoughtful, not into himself;
Kind and wise; with integrity and principles.
A wink of his eye and nod of his head,
And she knew she had nothing to dread.
He spoke no more words but bent to his work,
Rolled down her stockings, slipped them off with a jerk,
He set them aside, a sheer pile of hose,
Then to his knees, aloft he arose;
With an appreciative smile, and soft, low whistle
Murmured, “Fine as a rose, minus the thistle.”
Then she heard him exclaim, as he dove out of sight,
“Ho, ho, ho! It’s my lucky night!”
Happy Holidays Everyone!
Original poem. Copyright: Deborah Small, 2018. All Rights reserved.
