The pads of his fingertips brushed the space between her shoulder blades, his skin soft and his touch gentle. To him, her back was a desert, a beautiful stretch of dips and slopes, all calling to be explored, to be touched and treasured. She did not deny him this adventure.
She sighed, sands shifting, and her hair tumbled over his finger's path. He withdrew them, and instead weaved between them a lock of silken hair. Heat prickled her exposed neck, her breath holding. For now, he let the strands slide back to rest, allowing her to fill her lungs in relief.
She was shy, she was a rose. A blushing, sweet and innocent thing. Her petals tightly bound and unmarred.
He was curious, he was a whirlwind. A sweeping, strong yet gentle thing. His breezing whispers chilling and fresh.
YOU ARE READING
Little Worlds
PoetryLittle short skits I write when I am sad, happy, or somewhere in between.