His grip on her thighs are gentle, fingers soft to the touch on her bare skin; but, the pleasure of such a gesture packs a punch.
She wants his hands on her, she really does -- in fact, sometimes she lives for it. For the moment, however, it knocks the breath out of her, and not in the sense that she would feel whenever she craved the peppermint kisses he would give her after popping a strip of gum in his mouth; this is something else entirely.
It's like a wall has built itself around her, iron filling the vine-filtered cracks of the bricks she had once placed within her mind herself. It's a wall she feels she can't entirely control, and it's enraging her.
She wants to love this; she wants to be in the moment, but her thoughts are flying a million miles per second, each word that filters through her mind a car crashing right into another. It's hard to focus; hell, it's hard to think, especially when she's thinking about so much already.
Her lips still twist into that perfect little smile of hers; that shy, and somewhat timid one that suggests she isn't shy at all, which they both know she most definitely isn't -- but, her eyes tell another story, and she's almost sure that he reads it. She feels guilty, almost; she doesn't want him to think that he has done anything wrong, but she can't help it; she can't help but hold back the curtain to the windows of her eyes -- that is something she can't control.
But then, just like that, he draws back, hands cascading away from her, rewinding himself from her touch, and she's able to breathe again, hardly suffocating, even with the nervous look in his own eyes as he smiles boyishly at her. But, there's something there in that locked expression of his, and almost immediately it's as if the iron that had started filling up her walls has started chipping away at itself.
He understands.
