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the hard button of her sex, imagining it was Ed’s callused hand stroking her instead. She fucked herself as if Ed were watching her, spreading her thighs and raising her hips, ignoring the twinges of arthritic pain. Ed had loved to watch her release herself; it made him hard as earth in a long drought to see her pleasure, to taste her right after.
    “Like honeysuckle off the vine,” he’d say. She knew the taste was saltier, because she’d tasted herself on him so many times. But she’d liked the poetry of it and hadn’t contradicted him.
    She imagined Ed’s head between her legs. She could even feel his thick hair tickling her thighs, his tongue stroking her. Licking her, over and over, until she couldn’t stand it, until she begged him to stop. And of course, he wouldn’t, not until she came, not until she filled his mouth with her honeysuckle sweet.
    The memory became so real she whimpered as she stroked her button and finger-fucked herself and came. Came for herself alone. Came for Ed.
    Her orgasm subsided. She slowed her strokes. Sometimes Ed hadn’t known when to quit. He would keep touching her or licking her long after her body had reached its limit. But here under this solitary sky she knew what she needed, what she could take, and she eased her fingers out, smelling the scent of her arousal, her orgasm.
    She laid there, her pulse slowly returning to normal, her skin damp, gritty still with Ed’s remains. She stared up into the brilliant black sky and smiled. Ed was watching. Ed and Poe. She just knew it.
    She knew she should get up and shake out her housedress. If she lay there much longer, she’d go stiff and be hurting tomorrow. She didn’t care. She’d hurt tomorrow no matter what she did tonight. And she’d be alone until her own body was burned down and fitted into a little box just like the one at her side. Tonight she didn’t want to think about pain or sickness or death. She just wanted to remember.
    She raised come-wet fingers to her mouth and sucked her taste from them. “Sweet as honeysuckle, Ed.” She whispered it.
    “Sweet as honeysuckle off the vine.”

Skin Deep
Kristina Wright
    It was the beginning of May and the beach was deserted. Michael preferred it that way. Sitting on the beach in Nags Head, North Carolina, reading the latest thriller, Michael looked like the contented bachelor he was supposed to be, except he kept rereading the same page because his mind kept straying to when he could go back to work, back to life.
    Then he saw her.
    She was pretty; dark hair brushed her shoulders and long, long legs that danced across the sand. It took him a minute to realize she was chasing after two little dark-haired children.
    It had been so long since he’d had a date, he wouldn’t have known how to approach her anyway. Rest and relaxation, that was what he needed. A solid month of nothing but his own company, doctor’s orders. It should have been a dream vacation, but it felt like hell. Relaxation wasn’t a part of his life, but life had a funny way of kicking him in the balls just when he thought he was on top of the world.
    He hid behind his sunglasses as he watched the pretty girl on the beach. It didn’t matter that she was probably half his age and was playing with two kids who were most likely her own and had a husband who was probably a big, dumb hulk. She was cute and sexy and his cock hardened as he watched her follow a red beach ball toward the surf. A little fuel for fantasy wouldn’t hurt. If he couldn’t get laid, he could at least daydream.
    He saw her again the next day and this time the husband was there, too. He’d been right about him being a hulk – he was well muscled and as model perfect as his pretty wife. They seemed like the perfect little family, but the couple rarely looked at or spoke to each other. When they did, it seemed to be in reaction to something the children had done.
    The kids and hubby wore swimsuits, the little girl in a bright purple