‘Maybe not to you, but I haven’t had a break yet today. Wait here.’
When he was gone, she studied the bookshelves behind her, recognising many of Blake’s books from the flat they had shared. How long was he planning to stay in Frampton? How long did it take to write a book? She really had no idea. She picked up a novel she had read the previous summer in the paperback version, letting it drop from nerveless fingers when she saw Blake’s face staring back at her from the dust cover. Blake had written this. She remembered how much the book had moved her; how she had felt for the sardonic hero; the power of the intensely passionate love scenes. As she bent to pick the book up she dislodged some of the papers from the desk. Down on her hands and knees she started to gather up the type written pages, her movements stilling as she started automatically to read.
The words seemed to leap off the pages to meet her, so tormentingly erotic that she could feel her body’s response to them. What she was reading was a love scene that reminded her so vividly of how it had been when she and Blake made love that she felt that Blake had almost walked into her mind.
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