Snow Dancing Laren LeBran

As I stood in the middle of my driveway and slowly turned three hundred and sixty degrees, I understood what inspired the title Pure as the Driven Snow.

There was no question that everywhere I looked the view was painfully beautiful and hauntingly chaste. A pristine, sparkling blanket covered everything: overhead, tree branches bowed beneath the feathery weight; the road narrowed to nothing more than a path between encroaching drifts; and all around me, swirling white nymphs floated on the air. Not a single footprint or errant noise suggested that I was anyone other than the last survivor in a world where sound and fury had succumbed to the inexorable march of millions, trillions of falling flakes.

I have always loved to shovel snow. It's always so very quiet, and the steady scrape of metal on stone is like another heartbeat keeping me company as I work. I'm an orderly shoveler. I outline boxes, starting first along the edges of the drive and then connecting the trenches at intervals with perfectly perpendicular ones, exactly the width of my shovel. Once the area is mapped, I clear the box closest to the house, then make another and move forward. If I'm feeling particularly adventurous, I might on occasion make a diagonal through the box. I'm careful about how I pile the snow, being certain to leave enough room on the top for later accumulations. Bend, extend, lift, and throw. A rhythmic cadence, an endpoint in sight, a job accomplished. When I reach the end of the driveway and look behind me, noting the perfectly squared edges and the even mounds of snow lining both sides, I have a sense of satisfaction and even pride. My secret pleasure.

Unfortunately, today promised to be an instance of delayed gratification. There were fourteen inches of powdery white stuff covering my eighty-foot driveway. There was going to be a lot of bending, extending, lifting, and throwing going on before I reached the street. And it was still snowing. Steadily. I could barely see to the end of the driveway. With one last reverent glance and a whispered apology, I broke the surface of tranquility with my shovel.

Time to begin my assault on nature.

Thirty minutes later, it was clear to me that nature was winning. I wasn't even a third of the way done, and when I looked behind me, the area that I'd already shoveled was blanketed again in a substantial coat of snow. I was reminded of a story I'd heard: it takes so long to paint the Golden Gate Bridge that once the crew reaches the end of the bridge, it's time to go back to the opposite end and start over.

Bend, extend, lift, and...

"Need some help?"

I could just barely see the figure at the end of my driveway, looking pretty much the way I did, I figured. That is to say, shapeless. Large, snow-covered, and shapeless.

"That's okay. Thanks. I've got it."

The form trundled forward through the mists of snow, slowly emerging as a recognizable human figure ten feet away. Blue woolen watch cap pulled low over straight dark brows, a few strands of dark hair escaping from the back and curling on the jacket collar, slightly above average height, blue nylon jacket, blue jeans, blue gloves. A study in blue with eyes I was willing to bet were the same color, but I couldn't tell through the curtain of falling flakes.

"My driveway is about a third the length of yours. I'm done with it, and I don't mind lending a hand."

Lovely voice, melodious and deep. Second alto or countertenor, depending on the gender. Which for the life of me, I could not discern.

I lifted a hand to shield my eyes, blinking as the crystals caked on my lashes. We were standing in the middle of a blizzard. "Yes. Thank you."

With a brisk nod, my new accomplice in this losing battle strode purposefully back to the opposite end of the driveway. As I watched, he—or she—made a neat square ten by ten feet wide and began to shovel it clear. Oddly comforted, I rededicated myself to the task. When I reached the midpoint of the driveway, I finally looked up again in time to see her toss her parka onto this top of a towering snow bank. And there was no question about the "her" part—the swell of breasts beneath the tight, blue, silk thermal top put all doubt to rest.

"You'll freeze," I called.

"No," her voice carried back to me. "I'm naturally hot-blooded. This feels great."

From where I was standing, it certainly looked great. Her jeans molded to her firm ass and solid thighs as if the material had grown there. She moved—bend, extend, lift, and throw—with an economy of motion and a precise rhythm that was mesmerizing. I was slowly becoming a snow statue as I stood unmoving, watching her work. I could almost imagine the muscles in her strong shoulders bunching as she thrust the blade into the snow, could almost feel her powerful thighs flexing, then lifting, as she threw the load clear. Oddly, I wasn't cold. If anything, I was pleasantly warm, and the heat escalated the longer I watched. Taking care to follow a path already shoveled so as not to pack down the snow beneath my boots, making it more difficult to remove later, I made my way to her.

"We've been out here quite a while. Can I offer you something hot? Coffee, cocoa, soup?"

She leaned on her shovel, her arm bent at the elbow and her legs casually crossed. She did have blue eyes. Blue blue, sky blue eyes. And they were appraising me in a way I hadn't seen for quite some time, but still recognized. I met her gaze so that she would know that I knew she was looking, and she smiled.

"Cocoa and soup?"

I laughed and extended my hand to introduce myself. "Fin Brewster."

"Jules Howard," she replied. "I'm new to the neighborhood."

"Ah, you arrived just in time for our annual snowfall." I turned and started back toward the house with Jules beside me.

"This is all there is, huh?"

I'd left the garage door open, and led her through to the small mud room that adjoined my kitchen. "You can take your boots off and leave them out here. Your jacket and things as well." I was busy shedding my own outerwear as I spoke. "Actually, we probably get two or three substantial snows, and it's always an event."

"It is pretty," she remarked.

As we shuffled about in the small space, we bumped shoulders and thighs several times. When I nearly knocked her over as she stood on one foot to pull off her boot, I grabbed her around the waist to steady her, laughing.

"Sorry. You first."

Unexpectedly, her weight settled into my arms, her back to my chest, and I found myself holding her in a loose embrace as she lifted first one foot, then the other, to untie her laces. Her hips rolled gently in the curve of my pelvis as she bent forward to pull off her boots. My arms were wrapped around her middle, fingers splayed on her stomach. When the muscles contracted beneath the single thin layer of silky material, I had the sudden, nearly overpowering urge to slide my hands up and cup her breasts. I stood completely still, barely breathing.

"I'm warm deep inside, but everything else is cold," she whispered. "The heat from your hands feels so good."

When she straightened I didn't let go, but merely leaned my shoulders against the wall, braced my legs, and took her weight once more against the front of my body. My mouth was very close to the back of her neck. A few snowflakes still lingered, the edges blurring and melting before my eyes. I have no idea what I was thinking, but I touched the tip of my tongue to a single shimmering droplet that clung to her skin, and when I did, she sighed. A long, shuddering sigh of pleasure.

"It's warmer in the kitchen," I said, my mouth against the shell of her ear.

"You're just what I need."

She reached between us and placed her palms flat against my thighs. I looked past her shoulder to a small mirror on the opposite wall and saw us reflected there. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped back slightly, her neck exposed above the crescent of navy blue. In the mirror, I watched my fingers curve around the column of her neck and dance along the taut muscles until I cupped her chin. When I pressed ever so slightly, she turned her face until I could brush my lips over the corner of her mouth. Her skin was soft and cool.

"You're going to get chilled," I murmured, skimming my lips along the angle of her jaw until my mouth was against her ear. "The snow is melting, and your jeans are soaked."

"You're right," she said, her voice husky and low.

She moved one hand from my thigh, and I heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper sliding open. "I should take these off."

"I'll do it." Watching her face in the mirror, I smoothed my hands down her abdomen to the waistband of her jeans, slid my fingers underneath, and pushed the material downward. She never opened her eyes, smiling gently as she shifted her hips from side to side to help me. The undulating pressure of her body rolling between my thighs made my stomach clench, and my hands trembled on her bare flesh.

She was shaking, too, and from the heat of her body reaching me even through my T-shirt and jeans, I knew it wasn't from the cold. With one arm around her hips, clasping her to me, I found the bottom of her shirt with my free hand and slipped underneath. I heard her murmur what sounded like a yes. She stretched against me, letting her head rest in the angle between my neck and shoulder, her hands braced against my thighs again, as I cupped her above and below. Her nipple hardened in my palm even as the silky evidence of her passion slicked my skin through the whisper of cotton between her thighs. I squeezed gently, then rolled my hand over her flesh, massaging her until her cool pale skin glowed red with the burn of desire.

"Jules," I whispered.

"Mmm?"

"It's supposed to snow again tomorrow."

"Oh," she sighed, covering my fingers with hers and guiding me inside her panties, drawing my fingertips up and down over the spot where she needed me. "Did I mention...oh, do me hard...yes yes just like that..."

She was hot and slippery, her clit so hard I could barely stay on it. I rubbed and stroked and felt her knees buckle. "Mention what?"

"How much I love..."

She whimpered and I pushed inside, the heel of my hand crushing her clit. She slapped a hand over mine and ground against my palm.

"Tell me what you love," I urged, my throat tight, my heart hammering so loudly I feared I would not hear. She was close, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth a silent oh. I didn't expect an answer.

She pumped hard on my fingers and laughed. "How much I love.. .to shovel. Oh god.. .please, don't stop..."

"I won't," I murmured, watching her face in the mirror as she climaxed, the planes and angles blurring like a snowflake melting in my hand.

Wet