Hope Springs Eternal

Another month, another entry in Bam's Monthly Contest. Perhaps one of these days, I'll win that Amazon gift certificate. In the mean time, I'm having a terrible lot of fun writing.

The challenge was to write a scene portraying heat--both meteorological and sexual--without straying into purple prose or naughty words. My entry's below.

Ingrid’s gin-and-tonic sat in a puddle on the scarred table— sweating, like everything else. The ice had melted in minutes; nothing could stay cold in this place, nor dry. When she tried to sleep, the sheets and mosquito netting stuck to her skin like wet tissue.

The radio hiccoughed. Duke Ellington became noticias; lights flickered, the fans slowed. The generator must want petrol.

She’d the tin in her hand when she got outside and heard the generator’s well-fed chug over the jungle’s nighttime chatter. A match flared in the shadow of the pump-house. Ruiz appeared in lantern light, leaning against the steel wall like he’d never left. He’d three days of black stubble, and a sheen of sweat that she wanted to lick off him.

Hot breath and hot mouths; he tasted of Scotch, she of gin. Her hands slid from his sweat-slick skin – he’d always been hard to hold onto.

“Why’d you return?”

Silent, he undid her shirt, baring her body to the thick night air and his dark eyes.

She struggled against the heat of his hands. “It’s too hot.”

He reversed their positions, pressing her naked skin against the cool steel wall. She sighed.

“Better?”

“Oh, yes...”