#300
Three word prompt: My life line
— ANONYMOUS
It's not that either one of them really want to watch a movie, they're barely paying attention to the screen. It's just that neither of them want to go out.
It's too new. It's too raw with them still. Every time he looks at her, it feels like her chest is collapsing and her heart throbbing to escape. He touches the back of her hand, or he brushes the hair off her neck and she tastes him on her tongue like a sense memory.
It's erotic, but it's also not fit for public consumption.
So they watch a superhero movie he picked out - or already had queued - and while it plays on his laptop, they sit side by side on the couch and pretend they aren't wrapped around each other.
She isn't practically in his lap. His arm isn't pressed between her thighs and his hand not somehow wrapped around her ankle. She isn't closing her eyes to inhale the scent of his skin at his nape. He won't, from time to time, lay his cheek to the top of her head.
Oh, whatever. She is. He is. They're doing this.
God. She doesn't want to ruin it. Please, let her not ruin this.
He angles the laptop a little more on the arm of the couch and his hand comes back to hers in his lap. He threads their fingers together, undoes them, fiddles with her thumb and the webbing, the knuckle.
Playing.
She holds her breath and surreptitiously watches from under her lowered lashes, marveling at how large his hand is, how thick his fingers. Where and how he used them last night, not only to card through her hair and the tangled knots of thunderstorm, but lower, better, more intently. Adeptly.
He rubs his thumb along her palm, stroking. Reminders. She shivers and turns he face into the back of his shoulder, pressing closer to his ribs.
She wants his hand on the button of her jeans. She doesn't want him to stop what he's doing right now. She wants contradictory things; she wants everything.
He smooths out her palm, his chest rumbles as he tries to speak. It might be for the first time today. She can't remember their actually having said anything to each other. It's all been mouths for other uses. Hands, gestures, a jerk of his head, a triumphant laptop raised aloft, awkward looks as they settled in for some kind of normal daily routine.
None of this is normal.
(But she hopes to God it will be.)
He finally finds his voice. "Your heart line is all broken up." And his thumb follows the track of what must be her heart.
She swallows roughly, sensation arcing in her like solar flares. "But my lifeline… leads straight to you." She feels stupid, she feels thrillingly empowered with the heady fullness of love. "And isn't that better? Life together."
"Always."
—–