White: white is the colour of purity. white is the colour of kindness. It is calming, represents truth and openeness, and provides clarity and completion. Brides wear white for Virginity. White is fresh.
"White...is not a mere absence of colour; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black...God paints in many colours; but He never paints so gorgeously...as when He paints in white." -G.K. Chesterton
White is the colour of innocence and purity—HA.
Likening innocence to her fair skin is a mockery of the very definition of the word.
Beautiful; yes. Enticing; oh yes. Demure, even.
Innocent? Never.
God, he loved her expensive, lace-white skin.
It wasn't a pure, innocent love, either; it was a lustful, animal passion, his penchant for her skin. If the snowy, pristine colour wasn't enough, then it was the sharp contrast her clothing choices wrought from it. Her emerald green evening gowns and jet black cocktail dresses, firecracker red lingerie and royal purple cashmere sweaters gave her pale skin such an ethereal, tantalizing glow that it mimicked vanilla ice cream in its mouth-watering whiteness, and he always, always wanted to run his tongue over it.
He could let his eyes roam over her skin for hours, whether he was covertly eying some suggestively cut designer gown from across a stiff-necked White House dinner or studying some exposed column of her throat as she bent studiously over case reports or lazily drinking in the sight of her exposed back as she lay sleeping in his bed, wrinkled sheets slipping off of her to expose some expanse of her smooth shoulders.
He liked how soft her skin was and how warm.
He liked running his hand, his fingers, and then his lips gently over her back, down her spine, while she rested in limbo between sleep and alertness next to him. It made him fiercely proud to know, as he watched her rule the agency from her high horse, that underneath her prim and neat suits, her ivory skin was marked by bruises on her hips and shoulders in the shapes of his fingertips, because that's what she meant to him: passion and sexually expressed emotion, and her creamy, lily skin bore the brunt of that.
He liked her on her back, breathing shallowly, just flushed enough to make her ice queen skin look kissed by pink and frosted in dew, because he knew only he could make her feel like that, and only he was allowed to see her like that, sated and relaxed and free of tension and stress.
He liked her in his sheets and in his arms, her red hair spread in ravished tangles on his pillows, her aroused skin, like so many white diamonds and shimmery pearls, kissed and possessed by his mouth and his alone.
Spending the night with Jenny was like spending a night wrapped in white satin: damn good.
He had never seen her skin as anything but perfect, even when he traced his fingers over the battle scars left from torture in Cairo and mistakes they'd made in Europe, even when she bitched about the scars that stitches left and the permanent blemish imposed by a severe knife wound. All he saw was clean alabaster skin, never able to hold the bronze of a tan, but occasionally be speckled with the faintest of tawny freckles.
It irked him that some of those scars he had no chance of preventing, and one too many of those scars had been the result of his inability to react fast enough.
Even if her skin was burdened with white lies and some lies bigger, and scary things and sad things, too, it was still beautiful and attractive in its ivory allure, like forgiveness; a blank canvas that was his to paint something better on.
It should be a sin for a woman to have inebriating skin like this.
The absence of innocence her milky skin brooked was filled by an intangible arrogance—no, not arrogance; a classiness, old-fashioned pride and coy femininity. She could be arrogant, but he could just as easily snatch the rug of arrogance from beneath her stiletto-clad feet and render her at a loss for fancy words.
Her skin was tough, to speak proverbially, but fragile, to speak physically. She bruised easily, but it seemed never to hurt her. She never showed it. He made sure he was the one to soothe the injuries when they bloomed, physical or no.
He liked her skin best when she was content; then it glowed.
He reached over her shoulder now and locked his fingers tightly in hers, placing a swift kiss to the back of her neck, just below her ear, his teeth grazing her vein, and she shivered again, a soft moan escaping her lips. He could feel every inch of her bare skin against him, silk in all but name, and he bit down gently on her shoulder and breathed in her scent, tightening his grip on her, his nails digging into her hip.
That white was the colour of purity and innocence was a fallacy—what Jenny Shepard did to him was in no form or fashion innocence. It was reasonably acceptable to christen white the colour of intoxication, in his case.
Whatever the prissy definition, Leroy Jethro Gibbs occupied himself in getting under her Snow White skin in every which way.
"Nights in white satin never reaching the end..." -'Nights in White Satin'; The Moody Blues
