Temptation

Sun through the cracks between the barn’s roof timbers created stripes alive with husk-freed motes, dancing witless as dervishes and spot-lighting his discarded trousers, their corduroy putting me in mind not only of Oliver Mellors but also a September-ploughed field. 

Similarly post-harvest, the blond stubble of his beard had brought my skin to cherry-ripe.

His voice, husky as a post-gig Springsteen, had murmured hot encouragement, his fingers skilfully tickled my fancy, but ultimately everything he offered failed to match the pull of  new scarlet, liquid scatter-patterning the polished silver curve of a sickle.