13. Dreams of the Impossible
Fingers trespass through hair, hands over lines and planes and curves. Whose is on whose is not an issue; it is only that it occurs. Sighs elicit from the labored panting of lips, fingertips brush over them in wonder. Hair falls into eyes and there is always a gentle motion to swipe it away. Noses and lips graze, breath offered in simultaneous trade in the minimal space, and sound alone is registered, the only true consumption that of the participants by the thunderous thudding of life within that drowns the over-stimulating touches.
Sound does not fully give way, no. Instead, touch and taste and the red rise to combat the blindness of the echoing. Soon, there is only heat and seeing is no longer so important. But heat eventually fades and leaves warmth in its wake; an equally pleasant experience.
Oh, how she wishes.