She smeared sun block thick and white across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, and he watched the sky and said, "I don't know a lot of things." Her fingers smelt of aloes and white magic, and when he kissed her, she could taste the sun. "--like, why the sea is blue."
The straps of his waistcoat knocked against his knees, his jacket and gauntlet discarded somewhere in the sand. He smiled as her hands found his, twining fingers and bare flesh. She murmured, "I don't think I've ever touched here," and he forgot to tell her she'd touched everywhere.
His skin was a constant dusty bronze, and she always wondered why he burnt before she did. Her hands were pale and ivory against his shoulders, and the muscles flexed, slick with lotion, and she could see the angry red burn bubbling under the surface. "You shouldn't have distracted me," she said. Still, her fingers were gentle. He sighed.
She would say it was too hot for this, limbs tangled and slick with the sweat, sticking her hair to her back. He would say it was too late for that. But she touched everywhere, fascinated with his flesh and the taste of his skin. Their hands were constantly twined together, and she watched the pattern of their fingers, ivory and bronze, pressing down. He moved, and she moved with him, and, together, they gasped.
She lay against his chest, listening to his heartbeat and counting the dusting of freckles that played over his collarbone. "I think it reflects the sky," she said. He picked at the red ribbon wrap of her hair, and said, "I thought it was the other way round."
"Maybe."
He smelt of seawater and swords, and when she kissed him, he could touch everywhere.