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SALICE'S LIPS TRACE his as she arches his body wantonly towards him in the faint light from outside, their silhouettes becoming one in the darkness. She catches the flashing of his teeth before he dips down to nibble her ear, causing a small gasp to retreat her mouth.
His brown skin glows in the moonlight that spills through the windows, his face acting as a stage for the patterns of curtains that dance across it.
There's hunger in his eyes and determination in his mind as his fingertips trace her curves and it's everything she wants. She feels her nails pressing into his forearms, latching onto him like he's a lifeline in an ocean. She would drown relentlessly, swirling around in bleak currents, if it meant he would be her savior.
"Salice," he mumbles against her shoulder as she traces the veins racing up his arms and feels him shiver against her touch. For some reason, she never closed the windows, enthralled by the swift wind that fondles her bare skin.
He falls against her on the bed eventually and her fingers curl around his instinctively, the warmth of their palms fusing until the heat is excessive. His grasp is strong, his fingers are calloused, and his presence is comforting in ways Salice would never voice aloud.
She doesn't say it, but she's grateful their paths intertwined on a fateful night two months ago when she shivered against the cold bleachers at her school's football game, searching the field for her friend. The wind blew persistently on that Friday night when he sat down in the empty spot next to her, shoving salted pretzels into his mouth while attempting to cheer. When he offered her the red windbreaker that embraced his frame, she reluctantly accepted it, trying not to think about the fact she was adorning the color of her school's rival team.
Now, as that windbreaker makes a home for itself in her closet, where it's been since then, she finds comfort in his warm arms. She can't stop herself from observing the way his eyes shine with hope and lips part ever so slightly as if he's witnessing perfection somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind.
For her, though, perfection lies right next to her, entangled in her sheets.
Her gaze drops to her wrist next to his, subconsciously tracing the tiny letter M written on her wrist, scratching it as if that would be sufficient enough to get rid of it. The action catches his attention and she finds him turning her arm over, seemingly noticing the tattoo for the first time.
"What does it stand for?"
She could lie, he wouldn't know. But, her tongue begins confessing as her legs get tangled with his underneath the covers. "My ex-boyfriend, Marc. We dated two years ago and it didn't work out. I was stupid when I got this." She laughs dryly, wallowing in the unfamiliarity of the situation.
