A short erotic interlude written in response to the writing prompt: In My Nature

It was the ice from the puddle that she wanted. Not a sanitised, conformist, cube from the freezer – she wanted the thin shard, complete with dirt and leaves, and a small twig embedded in it.

She wanted to take it between her fingers and run it over her most sensitive places. The tip of her nose. Her lips. Leaving a cooling trail down her chin and throat. Would there be any left by then to rub over her breasts, she wondered? Or would it have chilled and wetted her fingertips so it would be them delivering icy touches to her nipples?

If she dared to draw the ice between her thighs, she knew it would disappear in an instant. The heat she stored there would leave nothing but glistening debris.