"Do you trust me?" she asked quietly, slipping her hands into his, and he frowned slightly, trying to figure out what she meant by asking.
"Of course." he answered instantly, squeezing her hands a bit. "Why?"
"I want to do something for you." she said, sitting up a bit straighter and scooting closer (he could tell by the way her body and the bed shifted).
"Okay..." he said, vaguely bemused and wishing he could see the expression on her face. "Knock yourself out." Unexpectedly, her lips were on his, pressing to him gently but claiming him, claiming control, at the same time. It was a kiss that had what romance authors would call 'smoldering passion' beneath it, and it took his breath away. He slipped a hand under her hair, to rest on the nape of her neck, and resisted the urge to pull her to him and forget for a while how tough life had gotten. She had something she wanted to do, and he was extremely curious as to what it could be.
He started to find out when the muscles in her shoulder moved and he felt her hand wrap gently around his. Keeping his hand on her, she guided him to feel across her shoulder, over her collarbone, and down, brushing around and over the curve of her breasts. Though it didn't make a difference in his perception, he closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, staring into the darkness, as she moved his hand across her stomach, and taking hold of his other hand, rested that one on her thigh. He called to mind the best memories he had of all these smooth curves, but felt a pang when he realized how much they'd faded. He felt the muscles in her thigh tense briefly, almost imperceptibly, then relax, and his chest tightened a bit, knowing how much effort it would be taking her to stay calm with his fingers lightly brushing the space just above her knee.
His other hand, which had stayed nearly immobile near her hip, was suddenly guided down, over the shorts she was wearing (they felt like the khakis she'd gotten last year at Niagra Falls), and almost on its own found the warmest spot between her legs to brush over briefly before moving back up. It was almost like forming a new picture of her in his mind, but instead of focusing on the color and sight of her, he was learning the feeling of her shapes, the textures, the things he hardly knew before. She rested both his hands just above her hips and let go without warning, leaving him unsure of what to do for a moment until he felt the muscles and joints moving - causing her whole body to move a little, not that she probably realized that - and the hem of her shirt was pulled up, out away from his grasp, and he heard the sound of skin on cotton as she pulled it over her head.
When her hands brushed his again, gently nudging them upwards, they responded without much prompting. He ran his hands over her stomach, her breasts, her shoulders, her arms; noting that she was wearing a new bra and trying to memorize every bump, every indentation in her skin. His fingers traced her collarbones, brushed her neck, and gently cradled her breasts and elbows. And with every pass, he was forming a clearer 'image' of her in his mind. Without noticing, a few tears raced each other down his cheeks, and he hoped absently that his sightless stare wasn't focused directly on her - he knew it was disconcerting to have someone blindly stare at you, as if they could see your mind, if not your face.
As his fingers reached her waist, the contrast of skin and cotton stark under his hands, she touched his hands briefly to stop them. He waited while she awkwardly tried to remove her shorts without breaking his contact with her, and in the back of his mind he tried imagining what an amusing image it would make in other circumstances. Finally, he heard the cloth rumple as the shorts joined her shirt somewhere off to his left, and her hands brushed his, causing him to move instinctively.
Around her hips, down the outside of her thighs, slowly and carefully up the inside of her thighs, his hands roaming independantly from his thoughts, learning to recognize every inch of her; now brushing down her calves, now passing between her legs with a little more pressure. He let one of his hands move up again, feeling her neck, her face, relearning every feature he'd once known so well. The feeling of wet streaks down her cheeks nearly broke his heart, and he cursed himself, for the millionth time, for listening to April, for fighting with his angel, for wasting so many years being stupid and stubborn and afraid.
Then he felt her move again, and his hands both moved to brush over the skin her bra had covered only moments before. He felt her shiver a bit, and wondered if this would lead to sex before realizing that he wasn't aroused; he was in the midst of a frighteningly intimate moment, but he didn't want it to lead anywhere else. For what he guessed may have been nearly 20 minutes, he touched every inch of her, learning how to tell this bit of skin from that, noticing little differences, even tracing the curved line on her back where the edge of her swinsuit always was, a minute difference existing between the tan and cream of her skin.
And then suddenly, something broke inside of him, and he couldn't keep relearning her, it hurt too much, and all he could do was pull her to his chest and wrap his arms around her and fight not to cry.