âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Paul McCartney •

Earlier, you had closed the balcony doors against the creeping chill of the evening, but now you thrust them open with vigour unusual for that time of night, hoping for the darkness to cool the heat of your face. The thin sheet you'd hastily wrapped around yourself did little to protect your glistening skin, so the effect was almost instantaneous.

For a calm moment, you stood leaning against the ornate railing, inhaling the city lights and exhaling the small-town blues.

Moments later, Paul emerged behind you, sparking up the cigarette he had reluctantly left the bed to find. For a moment, he stood framed by the glittering glass doors, admiring the silhouette of you beneath the star light, the anchor in the turbulent sea that his life had become.

His eyes traced the tousled locks of the hair currently imprinted with his fingers, the soft arms that cradled him into safety, the exposed shoulders that he loved to create constellations on with his lips, the shape of the body that kept him warm at night, its beauty unable to be hidden beneath your makeshift swaddle.

Blissfully, he sighed, exhaling his cigarette smoke, and much more besides.

At the sound, you turned your eyes to meet his with a smile. He looked an unearthly kind of beautiful as he stepped out of the shadows of the candlelit room, wearing nothing besides the pair of trousers he had been quick to discard hours previously.

It was times like this that you wished you could verbalise your thoughts, provide Paul with more confidence-boosting descriptions than 'handsome'. The mediocrity of the syllables paled in comparison to the being that stood before you.

Yet, he was the wordsmith. And while he immortalised you in songs you could lose your mind to, you kept him grounded in reality with unwavering love and all the affection you could muster.

When he reached you, Paul rested a hand lightly on your hip and placed a soft kiss to your cheek, gently tugging you from the reverie that shone the same colour as his eyes. "How are you enjoying Paris, love?" he mumbled in your ear, moving slightly closer to hold your body flush against his own.

"It's beautiful, Paulie." Although you and Paul had been too occupied to actually see much of the city since landing in it earlier, the view you had from your hotel suite was second to none. You felt as though you could see almost to the end of the world, the path lined with cobbles, Haussmann spectaculars and bright lights sent from Heaven above.

And, in the midst of all that bustle, was the perfect, coveted view of the Eiffel Tower, overlording the City of Light in a position you thought only God could hold.

"Really beautiful," you added, greedily gulping down the view again as you searched once more for better descriptions that remained beyond your grasp.

Paul, with his cheek now resting on your shoulder, was at a perfect vantage point to scan your face, unable to withhold the smile that lit up his features at the look of wonder shining like beacons from your eyes, painting the city before him in screaming colours the shades of which he knew he would never get just right. But, as long as it made you happy, he would never give up trying.

Shifting his head slightly to press his lips to your shoulder, he mumbled "I'm glad."

Even after so much time together, the feeling of his lips lazily travelling along the intricate planes of your body still sent tingles throughout your entire frame, as though your skin and bones regressed to the younger age they were when they first experienced someone's lips tracing the sensitive skin. Yet, whenever Paul's kisses peppered your body, those who had come before stood little chance.

He continued to map his way up your neck, your head tilting to the side to let him but your dreamy gaze continued scanning the romanticised sketches of the complicated city.