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She lays sprawled out over the bed, hair in a wild disarray of dark tresses, lean limbs draped between the cushions and the cover that is only partially spread over lily-white skin, hidden underneath silk and lace and an unfastened cream-colored button-down, the early morning sun gliding over her body, softly, not wanting to disturb her, and still, it illuminates her almost fully, as if the rays of light it sheds onto the slumbering woman, with her chest gracefully rising and dropping in a steady rhythm, are its nimble and lovesick fingers which it just can't pull away from the creature on the mattress.
It is then that he notices that, smoke imprisoned in his lungs as he forgets all about air for a second, the female's entire being consists out of elegant, almost feline curves.
There's that light arch in her back to which he presses his fingertips when he wants to guide her in the direction he's settled on mentally, the mirrored slews that make her waist, the rounded swell of her breasts, the wave called her calf and heel, creeping out from under the blanket, that gentle sway where her neck becomes her slender shoulders, the spirals in her hair that frame her face, the bend in her mouth, normally red as blazing cinnabar roses but hued a mellow peach now that she's without her lipstick, the half loop in her lank eyelashes, the swerve where her hips start, the crook of her folded arm, hand next to her head, and so many other twists and turns and kinks that he loses track of them, awestruck by many flexes.
A grey and blue cloud escapes him as he exhales, the smoldering end of his cigarette crumbling to black ashes as he presses the stub against the chair. What is left over of the stick is discretely flicked out the window about two feet away, and then he leans forward, to slide his fingers in her raven locks.
He hears a sigh, watches her wriggle and then, half-comatose but perhaps not unconsciously, she curls her fingers around his elbow, positions her coiled cheekbone, the bow in her jaw line, against his palm.
For a moment, he freezes, and then sees her eyelids quiver, forcing him to draw his arm back and her arm to fall back between the pillow. She lifts her head, an inch or two, and then opens her eyes, presenting him with perfectly round pupils, flawless black circles bordering the scarlet and cinnabar zones in her irises and the turn of her lips when they mold into a uncorrupted smile.
Once more, she leaves him breathless.