Her P.O.V
He smelled so good.
The sleeves he had laid
around my neck
had been fumed
with his scent.
Salty water and
seaside soaked pebbels,
washed away with the waves'
back and forth.
But still damp,
still fresh.
I cursed myself
for forcing his arms
away from my body
when I should have tugged
at his sweatshirt
to fit his thin lips
under a slow kiss.
And- oh boy
how I had wanted to entwine
my silky fingers in his hair,
those dark, velvet textured
slight curls,
I could have clutched to beg for
the grunts buried down at the back
of his mouth.
But I could not.
Not there,
not at the cafe's doors,
not under that stare.
YOU ARE READING
I named her Africa #Wattys2015
PuisiI didn't mind if my fingertips were rusted with coffee grounds, or if my palm still hosted bread crumbs, I reached out my hand across the table, and you squeezed it but proved me wrong. My mind was spiraling, my heart, unstable. ____________________...
