Her exquisite feet skimmed the floor, like ephemeral swallows of passion. She paused in front of the gauzy, billowing curtains in the breast-heaving moonlight.
The man followed. His glistening moonlit pectoral muscles glistened.
He swept her into his moonlit chest. He groaned in triumph.
“No!” she protested. She was a tumult of unnameable emotions. She was angry, trepidatious, excited, breathless, and hesitant.
“Why not?” he rumbled, deep within his glistening chest.
“Because the best-selling children’s fantasy author is coming tomorrow! She’s won the Aurealis Award, the NSW Premier’s Literary Award, the Tasmanian Literary Award, the Davitt Award and the Russell Prize and she’s going to share all of her experience and insight with us! It’s a really big deal!”
He growled in dismay. “What’s an author?” he grumbled handsomely.
“And it’s all happening tomorrow, just for the Mountain Ash Chapter, at the Belgrave Library between 10am and noon!”
He pulled her long, silvery hair back, baring her ephemeral throat. “So just remind people to get their tickets and come along,” he murmured, driven mad by the glistening heat of her.
“I can’t do that!” she wailed. “I can’t just plop down a hyperlink like https://www.eventbrite.com.au/e/the-mac-writing-space-belgrave-library-tickets-653711046337 right in the middle of a story!”
“What story?” he gnarred. The keen arch of his eyebrow more than made up for his lack of keen intelligence.
“I don’t think you can gnarr,” she whispered breathily, her moonlighted bosom heaving again. “I think that’s too archaic to flow naturally.”
As the curtains billowed and their passion rose, all thoughts of brilliant authors were discarded along with their ephemeral clothing. Only the serious writers would be destined to attend on the morrow.