Under stars chilled by the winter
Under an August moon burning above
You'd be so nice
You'd be paradise, to come home to and love*
She had warm dark eyes and hair the color of bitter chocolate, and when she spoke it was like silk wrapped itself around his body.
Her hands were small, the nails tapering into perfect ovals, and she wore no polish, but they glowed from being buffed, he noticed. Sitting in the cafe, across the table from her, all he could think was that he wanted those hands to hold him, to stroke him, to tease and coax and work whatever magic their delicate dextrosity could conjure.
Magic. She was magic.
When she gave him that come-hither glance, he had no choice but to follow her lead, follow her car, follow her into the house with the blue door.
His last thought, before pleasure pushed him beyond consciousness, was that he thought blue doors were meant to keep the witches out.
*”You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To,” Cole Porter