Gemotions

"Good afternoon, Margaret." The baritone rumble of Mr. Davies's voice echoed across the fence, carrying a sudden, unwelcome tremor down her spine. The sun, a burning disc in the azure sky, seemed to amplify the heat that suddenly flooded her.

She straightened, her hands flying reflexively to her hair, smoothing it. His eyes were trained on her, taking in her appearance with an intensity that made her stomach clench. The wood of the fence between them felt thin, inadequate.

"Hello, Mr. Davies," she replied, her voice sounding oddly high-pitched. She was suddenly and acutely aware of the way her top clung to her body, and the gentle curve of her hips.

"That old birch… it's causing issues with my foundation. I was wondering if you'd be open to having it taken down." The words themselves were innocuous, but the way he spoke, the careful emphasis he placed on each syllable, sent a strange flutter through her. She felt a tingling sensation beginning to spread across her thighs.

"I… I suppose," she managed, her throat suddenly dry. The world seemed to narrow, focusing solely on the man on the other side of the fence.