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"God of Fire" has erotic content and is intended for those 18 years of age or older who are not offended by erotic content. God of Fire by Kate Hill I watched him last night when he thought I was asleep. Draped in a red silk robe, he stooped to stoke the smoldering embers of the fire burning in the hearth across the room. He stood and shrugged off the robe, revealing a smooth, muscled body of dark skin. Black hair dangled in a glossy braid that brushed his tight buttocks, and a white tattoo of chain link trailed from his nape to his tailbone. He lit the rows of black and scarlet candles along the mantle and held his palms over the flames, not moving until his hands trembled against the heat. Stretching his arms above his head, he lifted his face of chiseled granite to the mural of entwined lovers painted on the ceiling. He's the first fallen angel shouting his fury to heaven. Bare feet stepped from the puddle of red silk and slid across the polished wood floor. His legs bent into low stances, accentuating the lean muscles of his calves and thighs. His hands and arms lifted into the slow, sensual strikes of his martial dance. He's the Emperor of the Underworld, training for battle, preparing to mate with bewitched mortals. He paused, the firelight lapping his skin and marking it with twisting tiger stripes. I remembered the strength of his arms around me and the power of his body as he pressed me onto the bed. I still felt his moist mouth and tongue probing me. I wanted him, but I only watched. His long fingers strayed across his body, brushed his hairless chest, and traced the ridges of his muscled abdomen. He turned, giving me a perfect view of his swelling cock. His fist encircled the rod of hard velvet, and my heartbeat matched the rhythm of his hand. Wetness slicked my clasped thighs and I touched myself. I longed to slip from the bed, kneel in front of him and worship his cock with my mouth. I needed to feel his hips beneath my hands and the tightening of his fingers in my hair. My tongue craved the taste of his flesh. His head tilted backward, his breath a rasp in his throat as his private ritual ended. His muscles tensed and his body wept milky tears that doused the flames in the hearth. I moaned, and he turned to me, smiling, his teeth sharp and white against his dusky skin. Slipping from the sheets, I stalked across the floor on my hands and knees to clutch his ankles. My hands slid over the roundness of his calves and up the taut backs of his thighs. Growling, I licked the last pale drops from his cock. He sprawled on a chair cushioned in red leather and I bent to rekindle the fire. Flames jumped alive and I smiled, turning toward him. He watched me through half-closed eyes, and I knew that soon, very soon, his fire would burn inside me. The End Copyright 2000 Kate Hill

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