It wasn't the curve of her hips. It wasn't the freckles sprinkling her nose and shoulders. Nor the twist of her lips when something amused her, always a light laughter dancing within her mouth... Or the strong nose that often wrinkled when she made a face, attempting to elicit a laugh from those around her, if at least a smile...
But it was the light in her eyes, at once that had been so vibrant in her youth, actively trying to break free from its blue prison. Within the reflection of her eyes...that's where she rested. Over the years the light had subdued, resting dormant and content like a sleeping lion. Through the facade of the wit, no one observed the woman. Sensual and succulent and passionate.
A sleeping lion is no less passionate than a waking lion.
But beware the man who arouses the lionness...
© 2015 Angela Darling, Amontillado Publishing, All Rights Reserved.
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