Usual Disclaimer
I don't own the characters of Bodie and Doyle, or any others from the TV series. They belong to Mark One Productions and Brian Clemens.
I borrow them to write fiction for my own (and hopefully your) pleasure, with no financial gain to myself or anyone else.
TOUCHING
Touching is a two way thing.
Ray and I have been together for quite a while, yet he still manages to make my heart race.
When he takes my face between his hands I can feel the roughened skin on his palms as he gently pulls me towards him. His touch is warm as he claims ownership of my mouth.
He has long, slim fingers; we hold hands a lot; in the pub, when out walking in one of our favourite places, far away from the rat race; at the cinema, when he catches me as I move past him. He takes possession of me in his arms, strong and tender, never controlling.
When he cracked some ribs after a fight, I helped him wash and dress – he was in so much pain. I know the contours of his body as well as my own. I run my fingers around the scars on him, knowing that at least two were from life threatening injuries. I touch them with a reverence for his recovered health. He looks at me with a small half smile; he knows the sadness such reminders cause me.
I love his hair. At the moment he is in desperate need of a trim. He came out of the bathroom this morning after a shower. The weight of the water drags out the unruliness and his hair is longer than I realised – shoulder length at least. A brisk rub with the towel restores it to the usual state of shine and bounce, although it still frames his face, softening his features slightly. I love running my fingers through it, although Ray's usual response is a 'Gerroff' uttered with a disarming smile.
After work and while the bath fills, he kicks off his clothes – he's an untidy little toe-rag – and runs his hands down himself. 'just checking', he calls it, 'making sure everything is still working'. I laugh and encircle my arms around him, tracing the hair down his belly with one finger, while my other hand strokes his chest. I can feel his nipples harden under my fingers. He turns and holds me close, touching my hair, my neck, my shoulders. He murmurs so quietly into my ear it is difficult to hear him – but his body indicates exactly what he wants. He turns the taps off.
And so we arrive at our own private time. Our shared intimacy. I can touch his skin, stroke his body, nuzzle my face into the hair on his chest while we lay quietly, our heads touching, and the stubble on his chin lightly scratching my cheek.
We cuddle each other. I stroke his forearms as he holds me. I feel safe in this warm embrace. His muscles are firm and defined, hiding a strength deceptive in a man who is a little on the thin side
We make love. He is gentle and considerate but also wild and passionate. At all times we touch, almost afraid to lose that contact, that very lifeline we have with each other. All our senses are attuned to each other – I am so very lucky that I know the scent of him, the sight and sound of him, and the taste of him. Just touching and holding each other is a secret journey only we travel.
And me? I am Grace. I have been a part of Ray's life for a long while. I am his lover, partner and friend, as he is mine. I am his woman and Ray is my world.