When love isn't enough

He slid his hands beneath the soft cotton of her shirt, fingertips barely brushing her skin. Reveling in the anticipation of feeling more of her, touching more of her, he let his hands linger for a moment at her waist. Can I? he inquired, a trace of worry in his voice, as he searched her eyes for an answer. Golden hair fell across her small face as she nodded her head – Oui.

His lips traced her clavicle, her hands found his thighs. They explored each other’s bodies, so foreign and so familiar, sharing the one language they could both understand. Articles of clothing found their way to the ground – a red blouse, yellow skirt, white t-shirt, blue jeans, falling to the floor like splashes of paint, ornamenting the room like an impressionist painting. The early afternoon sun trickled in through the windows, casting soft crescents beneath the curves of her breasts, and darker shadows around the edges of his jaw. They moved in unison, breathed in unison, marveled at each other as if each exquisite beings. Every touch was a word, each kiss a sentence, and for this moment in time they understood each other perfectly.

Don’t go, he said, as she tied up her hair, combing through the blonde strands with careful, slender fingers. His right hand reached out and his eyes begged her to stay. Adieu, she responded, misinterpreting his words, gathering her things to leave. Glancing down at his outstretched hand, she wondered for a moment if he was asking her to stay, but then she turned swiftly and walked away.

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