Whilst she waited, knees to the floor, the incense of warm fruit commanded Silence.
She filled with self-conscious expectation, baking a mild curiosity underneath.
A scaled belt twisted the route of the doorway in the footsteps of its snaked aromas, leading oven cloth and heated tray. Verses of storm sung warnings by the garden gate, somewhere near the orchard and beyond what Eva cared to think about.
Strengthened scents, thunder cracks outside
Rain spits at the window.
She'd never had it before, but an old favourite. Most had ventured to bite, it was definitely not original. Sweet apple and golden, bubbled pastry
He places the fertile fork on her tongue, telling her, whispering.
Laden, fruitful persuasion, the basket of the Gods
Sweet nectar, she realised, banished all else.
Opening her eyes, fangs poised for more, propped up by her serpentine lusts. She discovers him; a falling buckle sounds a hymn as it hits the glass table.
Was he always this white, this pure? Hot, sweet tea an