She looks so young, Matthew thinks. Like she should just be starting high school.
Israel twists and pants above him, her palms resting on his shoulders, her back arching perfectly with every shift of her hips. Pleasure shudders through his body.
She looks so young, but her eyes are so old.
Matthew hisses as Israel leans down and nimble, calloused hands run softly across his chest. He can feel her desert-wind breath on his cheek, hot and dry and sweet, and it tickles as she whispers some quiet Hebrew poetry into his ear.
Her words are ancient and powerful, much older than any time Matthew can remember. He can feel them curling inside him like smoke.
Slowly, deliberately, Israel lets her fingers trail along Matthew's jaw, tilting his face, guiding him up, up, up, tracing the curve of his lips with his thumb. Her breasts press softly against his chest, and he runs his hands up her back, pulling their bodies flush. She grins. Their noses bump, olive-tan on snow-white, and she leisurely draws him into a smooth, searing kiss.
Their mouths fit together, warm and wet and open, tongues gracefully rolling together like the quiet waves of the Mediterranean Sea. Matthew sighs. Israel's mouth tastes rich and savoury-sweet, like olive oil, bread, spices and honey and tea. Her scent is much the same; a melting-pot of exotic flavours and aromas all simmered together in the heat of the sun and the sand.
All the while, Israel keeps rocking, shifting, moving, and it feels very, very good.
It takes time, but soon she pulls away with a quiet "mm". Matthew leans up to close their lips back together, but she places a firm hand on his collarbone. Quietly, she stops, and looks him in the eye.
Her eyes are so old - dark and haunted, steely-black and hard as flint. They are the eyes of a survivor. Matthew is spellbound, and he finds himself paralyzed in their darkness.
She speaks, voice quiet and intense in the heady silence. "Canada?" He feels himself nod, and she tucks a lock of blond hair back behind his ear. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes," he says without hesitation. He runs his hands over the skin of her back - it is the colour of fresh olives, as soft as oiled leather, and warm like a stone set out in the sun. Buried within her, he aches to move, but he knows that this stillness is important, too important to break.
She ignores it, eyes locked with his. "Will you promise?"
He pauses. "What do you mean?"
"Will you promise to trust me? To support me?" She stares, completely still. "No matter what happens?"
Matthew looks into her eyes, and says, with as much conviction as he can, "Yes. I promise."
She studies him for a long moment, then smiles gravely. "I believe you."
And then they are moving again, faster and faster, less like the Mediterranean and more like the wild Atlantic. She is moaning and whispering, and he's kissing her neck, and her hands are digging into his hair, nails scratching furrows in his back; he holds her close, and her breasts rub up against him, and she feels so good that he's losing his mind.
As the bombs go off behind his eyes and on the streets, he wonders if he made the right choice.
Inspired by the events of January '09 - Canada was the only nation out of 47 others to vote against a United Nations motion to condemn Israeli action against the Gaza strip.