"I keep expecting the light," she admits, after his kisses. It's not something she wishes to speak of--any of it, really, these weren't things to re-live or reimagine by giving voice to them. Yet he was truthful with her, and he's correct in saying they need to be honest with each other.
She doesn't always have to be strong around him, does she?
The water shuts off and she's left standing in the stall with him, still pressed close, unwilling to step those meager inches back. The steam or her exhaustion--she's not sure which, maybe both, maybe none--lends itself to a dreamlike quality in the space. Even as water drips from the ends of her hair and her lashes, even as droplets slide down his chest.
She chases one of the droplets with her thumb, then brushes the uppermost scar with surer fingers. It's like the peaks and valleys of his muscle, but more textured. She traces each rise and dip of his abdomen, as if she's seeing him for the first time. And maybe she is, in some ways. There hasn't ever truly been a moment where she's merely touched him for the sake of it, to learn more of him. Most of those moments have melted into heavier touches and heated kisses. But right now, she maps his torso out until the first chill of the room invades the stall.
no subject
"I keep expecting the light," she admits, after his kisses. It's not something she wishes to speak of--any of it, really, these weren't things to re-live or reimagine by giving voice to them. Yet he was truthful with her, and he's correct in saying they need to be honest with each other.
She doesn't always have to be strong around him, does she?
The water shuts off and she's left standing in the stall with him, still pressed close, unwilling to step those meager inches back. The steam or her exhaustion--she's not sure which, maybe both, maybe none--lends itself to a dreamlike quality in the space. Even as water drips from the ends of her hair and her lashes, even as droplets slide down his chest.
She chases one of the droplets with her thumb, then brushes the uppermost scar with surer fingers. It's like the peaks and valleys of his muscle, but more textured. She traces each rise and dip of his abdomen, as if she's seeing him for the first time. And maybe she is, in some ways. There hasn't ever truly been a moment where she's merely touched him for the sake of it, to learn more of him. Most of those moments have melted into heavier touches and heated kisses. But right now, she maps his torso out until the first chill of the room invades the stall.