Seriously. When I think PG, I think Lilo and Stitch. And you KNOW Lilo's not fishing for trouser trout when she's out with Stitch. Why? Because PG sex scenes do. not. exist.
And yet, somehow, Simon was kind of cajoled into hosting this PG Love Scene Blogfest. And then, in turn, he forced me to participate... Yep, he stuck a gun against my ear until I signed up. I should have just told him to go ahead and shoot me.
So, yes, I cheated. My scene is definitely not PG. I couldn't do it. I went with PG-13 instead. I did stick with the rules otherwise though. (kind of)
The rules were:
- A short love scene between two characters (yes, two, ‘cause if it’s a threesome or better, it sure as hell ain’t PG!)
- The reader needs to understand that the act of love is occurring, but the language must remain MG/PG.
- You may not fade to black because that would be cheating.
Um, so here's my entry:
When his fingers graze my shin, I know it’s starting. I push up onto my elbows and smile at him, so he understands I’m okay with it. It was my idea, after all. My idea for the picnic. My idea for the secluded spot at the foot of the hill. And my idea to mix vodka into a half empty 20-ounce Sprite bottle—just to see what would happen.
As if we didn’t already know.
His hand works its way up past my knee and I find I can’t meet his eyes anymore, so I lay back on the blanket to stare at the sky. A few puffs of grayish white speckle an otherwise pale blue. And far in the distance are darker storm clouds, but they won’t reach us for a while. It’s not perfect, but it’s close enough.
I can’t quite figure out what to do with my hands, so for now they go behind my head. He’s scooting closer, at the same slow speed as his hand traveling along my leg. I want to look at him, but my eyes refuse to move in his direction. He reaches my thigh and the pressure is just a little too much. I giggle. I can’t help it—I’m ticklish. He laughs too.
I know he’s looking at me. I can feel his gaze on my face. A moment passes, and then another. I watch a cloud wander by overhead. I feel the change in pressure a second before he starts to pull his hand away, so I catch it with mine and slide it closer to the hemline of my skirt. I leave my hand on top of his, for a second, enjoying the warmth. It seems to match the liquid heat working its way down my stomach.
The wind picks up a bit and the trees begin to sway. I watch the branches dance and wonder if they’re really moving in perfect rhythm or if the vodka’s helped the tango tempo playing in my mind.
And then he’s kissing me and my hand weaves into his hair. His kiss is messy, but not sloppy; relief mingles with regret when his fingers work their way over my skirt instead of under it. But then his hand grazes my hip and rests at my side, his thumb stroking my stomach through my shirt. And next my ribs. He rolls his fingers across each one, like a piano. I wait for the laughter to choke my throat—but it never comes. Why doesn’t this tickle? The thought disappears as soon as it flits through my mind, though, because he begins to trace lazy figure eights around my collarbone. I suddenly can’t remember out how to swallow. When I do, it sounds like someone stepping in mud—so loud—and now mortification mixes with…whatever else this is I feel. Need?
A shift in weight and he’s laying beside me, sliding his hand back down the way it came. When his lips travel to my throat, my eyes open, for a brief moment, in shock at the electricity bouncing across my skin. I notice, distractedly, that the storm clouds are closer now, faster than I thought they’d be. But when his fingers slide under my shirt, when he smoothes his hand along my skin, everything hazes into a bright white and I stop seeing anything at all.
I realize, at some point, that I’m moving. With eyes still closed, it’s almost like floating in the ocean. Waves rolling under my back, lifting my hips and washing over my toes.
And he rides the same current—shares each crest. When the first fat drops of water splash from the sky—we’re too busy floating together to notice.
But after, when I lean my head back against his shoulder, I open my mouth to catch the rain.
PS. To read everyone else's entries, click here.
PPS. Alexandra posted about duets--music for writing--over the weekend, make sure you don't miss it because it's the first in a series =) (click here)
♥ Sara
When his fingers graze my shin, I know it’s starting. I push up onto my elbows and smile at him, so he understands I’m okay with it. It was my idea, after all. My idea for the picnic. My idea for the secluded spot at the foot of the hill. And my idea to mix vodka into a half empty 20-ounce Sprite bottle—just to see what would happen.
As if we didn’t already know.
His hand works its way up past my knee and I find I can’t meet his eyes anymore, so I lay back on the blanket to stare at the sky. A few puffs of grayish white speckle an otherwise pale blue. And far in the distance are darker storm clouds, but they won’t reach us for a while. It’s not perfect, but it’s close enough.
I can’t quite figure out what to do with my hands, so for now they go behind my head. He’s scooting closer, at the same slow speed as his hand traveling along my leg. I want to look at him, but my eyes refuse to move in his direction. He reaches my thigh and the pressure is just a little too much. I giggle. I can’t help it—I’m ticklish. He laughs too.
I know he’s looking at me. I can feel his gaze on my face. A moment passes, and then another. I watch a cloud wander by overhead. I feel the change in pressure a second before he starts to pull his hand away, so I catch it with mine and slide it closer to the hemline of my skirt. I leave my hand on top of his, for a second, enjoying the warmth. It seems to match the liquid heat working its way down my stomach.
The wind picks up a bit and the trees begin to sway. I watch the branches dance and wonder if they’re really moving in perfect rhythm or if the vodka’s helped the tango tempo playing in my mind.
And then he’s kissing me and my hand weaves into his hair. His kiss is messy, but not sloppy; relief mingles with regret when his fingers work their way over my skirt instead of under it. But then his hand grazes my hip and rests at my side, his thumb stroking my stomach through my shirt. And next my ribs. He rolls his fingers across each one, like a piano. I wait for the laughter to choke my throat—but it never comes. Why doesn’t this tickle? The thought disappears as soon as it flits through my mind, though, because he begins to trace lazy figure eights around my collarbone. I suddenly can’t remember out how to swallow. When I do, it sounds like someone stepping in mud—so loud—and now mortification mixes with…whatever else this is I feel. Need?
A shift in weight and he’s laying beside me, sliding his hand back down the way it came. When his lips travel to my throat, my eyes open, for a brief moment, in shock at the electricity bouncing across my skin. I notice, distractedly, that the storm clouds are closer now, faster than I thought they’d be. But when his fingers slide under my shirt, when he smoothes his hand along my skin, everything hazes into a bright white and I stop seeing anything at all.
I realize, at some point, that I’m moving. With eyes still closed, it’s almost like floating in the ocean. Waves rolling under my back, lifting my hips and washing over my toes.
And he rides the same current—shares each crest. When the first fat drops of water splash from the sky—we’re too busy floating together to notice.
But after, when I lean my head back against his shoulder, I open my mouth to catch the rain.
PS. To read everyone else's entries, click here.
PPS. Alexandra posted about duets--music for writing--over the weekend, make sure you don't miss it because it's the first in a series =) (click here)
♥ Sara
