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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