Poseidon
The Cornish Coast
May 1881
*Kitty*
He has the look of danger about him. The look of a werewolf, maybe even an Alpha.
I recognize it the moment I spot him, standing alone on the rocky shore, gazing out to sea, toward the horizon, as if daring the sun to rise.
Or perhaps he is commanding it not to.
Because its brightness will surely reveal what the dawn shadows are currently hiding, what immediately captures my breath and my attention when I clamber over the rocks, hoping for a bit of isolated seashore: his perfect, naked form standing proud as though he has been carved from the very boulders on which he stands.
He is truly magnificent. It takes every bit of willpower I possess to stay rooted exactly where I am when I desperately want to cross the short distance that separates us and touch him. Trail my fingers over those sculpted muscles that are burning bronze as the sun pushes back the last remnants of night.
I have never seen anything so glorious except in that secret, dark corner of my mind where lustful thoughts tempt me with wickedness, shame me with their clarity. I know a lady of my upbringing shouldn’t harbor such vivid, carnal images, much less crave the sight of them. And yet I do. Whenever my mind has occasion to drift, it is lured toward perilous thoughts that threaten my purity.
And that is the very reason that this man is so extremely dangerous. Because he embodies every sinful fantasy that I have ever dared to dream.
As the morning’s light fades from gray, I can see that the thick, dark strands of his hair are too heavy with dampness to move much with the breeze that wafts in across the sea. He has been swimming no doubt, and I marvel that he isn’t shivering, but I guess werewolves just don’t freeze. The waters off the coast of England are cold, not nearly as welcoming as the warm currents that wash in off the Texas coast in summer.
I have often swum in the Gulf of Mexico, had actually been contemplating a quick dip into these chilly waters.
Until I happen upon Poseidon here. The man does truly resemble a god. From the top of his head, along the entire length of his long torso and longer legs, down to his rounded heels. As unacceptable as it is, I wish he would turn so I might glimpse a full view of him.
A decent woman would have averted her gaze immediately upon spying him; she wouldn’t have ducked back and prayed that she wouldn’t be sighted while she leisurely took her fill of him, cataloging each dip and curve and flat plane that had come together to create such perfection.
Unexpectedly, he twists and crouches, to retrieve his clothing I realize at the exact moment that his gaze falls on me, holding me captive as easily as his lean body had only moments before. He seems slightly startled, not overly alarmed, more curious than anything else. And I realize the sun that had so clearly revealed him is now also exposing me.
I spin on my heel, lift my skirts, and dart back the way I’ve come, scampering over the rocks until they give way to the pebble-and-sand shore. I break into a full run, the wind whipping my hair in my face, pressing my skirt against my legs. I run until I reach the path I’d followed to the shore. Run until I reach a less desolate area, where my passing would no longer be marked. When the brush thickens, I find a place where I can lie on the cool grass unobserved. I curl into a tight ball, wrap my arms closely around myself, and weep.
Weep because I am as wicked as the woman who had given birth to me without the benefit of marriage. Weep because no matter how hard I try, I never am as pure as the woman who had raised me.
Weep because my body is hot with lust, and I fear a time will come when the lust will consume me.
