bounded in a peach

Peach-pink, peach-gold; the smell of it reminds him of an evening long ago, in a orchard where the sound of lutes in the distance was like the scattering of stars in the sky, or the scattering of blossoms on the trees where flowers and fruit hung side by side on the branch, and --

Not a story! A wish! A need!

-- his companion bowed her head to hand him the peach. The long loops of her hair, cultured into elegance and control, swayed at her gesture. The tips of her fingers peeped out from the edges of her sleeves, and --

Smell it.

-- his fingers bit into the peach, tightening with arousal. Her lips parted as she watched him. She took a quick, shuddering breath. Drops of juice coated the end of his fingers. He raised his hand to her mouth so that she could lick them away --

Yes, I know this story, and then? And then?

The memory was as round and perfect as a peach, sealed in crystal. Dream put it in the bowl of fruit that stood between them.

Desire raised her fingers to her mouth, and licked at her nails, smiling.