Postponing Dinner
He lifted her heavy red hair off of her neck and placed his fingers at the base of her skull. She jumped, startled, and let out a minute scream.
"That's cold!"she exclaimed, but then she laughed and turned to face him, forgetting the sauce bubblings on the stove. She grabbed his hands, rough and worn, and folded them into her own, which had seen their share of wear.
"Sorry," he said, half-smile on his face, mischeivous. He extracted his now warm hands from hers and wrapped them around her waist, slid them up the back of her shirt as he pulled her toward him. They lost themselves in each other for a few mintues, until she pulled away quickly. "Sauce! Oh no, the sauce!"
He laughed softly, pulling her pack to him, "The sauce doesn't matter." He leaned in again, but she tilted her head back.
"Do you want to have dinner?" she asked, arching an eyebrow and keeping her head tilted so she could look up at him properly.
His hand traveled down her hip; she could barely feel the touch through the fabric of her jeans. She ran her hands down his back, felt the scars through his thin shirt, the scars which were like seams in rough-hewn woodwork.
"Not my biggest priority," he answered.
"Oh," she replied, slightly flustered, distracted by the sudden presnece of warm lips on an even warmer neck.
"How long until the full moon?" she breathed out.
He pulled away; it was his turn to arch an eyebrow, the color rising along his cheekbones, "Why, feeling adventurous?"
She placed one finger over his lips, "No," she replied. She moved in, her voice by his ear, "I'm just not sure exactly when I'll want this to end."
The heat of her breath made him shiver.