S.A.K Stewart Future books

“I can see you,” she said, almost prophesying, “in a field. A farmer’s boy. I can see you as a farmer’s boy.”

He chewed on his upper lip, disconcerted that he too, could now see himself as such. So he were to be a farmer’s boy, and not the boy he was now? She went on, relaying her illusion of the life she envisioned for him. He let her, for he liked the way she looked when she was consumed by her imagination. A fire caught somewhere in her and it spilled out through her eyes, streamed down her slender nose and ran backwards into her small lips where it caught again. One fire catching another fire. Only they never canceled each other out.
“You plough the fields and gather—” she said.
He was pretty sure that was a song. He had heard his grandmother sing it enough times at the church harvest, that it was an anthem.
“And you are wearing a flimsy white shirt, soaked through with sweat. And you are…well you are fine. The time out in the sun doesn’t bake you. It evens out your skin, and I think you almost look like one of them obsessive teens that sit on the beach all day to get a tan.” Automatically he looked at her long elegant legs that were still draped around his midsection. The bareness of her thighs drew him in, in a lopsided lover’s hug on the springless mattress they were on, on the cold ground.
It’s the peak of summer, but the room stays cold, despite his best attempts at keeping the heater on. The rent is too high in these parts of town and the salary of an aspiring musician does not a good home make.
“Anyways,” she said, stretching languorously, a cat in woman’s skin, “that is how I picture you. In another life. That is how you are.”
He was itching to ask if in this world she conjured up for him, was she also there?
It’s an odd question to ask a lass you’d only known for a night, but he needed to know. He needed to know she was there also, for he felt something for her. Startling as it was, it was there and there could be no denying it.
She rolled over onto him and stared down into his face. Her hair was wild about her, and her sex was still ripe. He looked at her breasts as they cast a shade on his pillow and he had to resist the uncanny urge to reach up and hold her in place like that forever. A million photos, plastered in the Louvre. A million sketches hanging from the arches of a church window. A million paintings decorating the walls of a cabin. That was how he saw her. Famous. Worshipped. Home.

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