She is soft and cool under his hands. He knows this from the many trails his wayward fingers have traced over the dips and slopes of her skin. Sometimes, her eyes and tongue dulled with sleep, she asks him if there's something he's looking for.
(yes, always—and maybe he can find it, hidden in an invisible Braille-)
But he never answers, instead pressing his mouth over hers to steal away her sleepy sighs.
There are times in the day when the clock freezes and she sharpens before his eyes: a beautiful, bright sliver of sunlight flitting between furniture. It's during these moments that he catches her wrist before he can think, dropping papers and drawing her close. Sometimes, her gaze expectant and cheeks flushed, she asks him if there's something wrong.
(would you disappear behind a jealous cloud, or fade away if it rained-)
He always says no, twining their fingers together and breathing in her sweet scent.
He makes excuses and swallows his thoughts back, but she knows. Sometimes she knows him better than he knows himself; sometimes she knows his words before he can hide them.
"I don't deserve you," he tries to tell her, and her face twists, her hands twist, her chest and mouth press against his.
"Shh," she murmurs. As though drawing poison from his lips with hers.
His hands are rough, his heart is rough. He touches her and imagines streaking ink over her flesh. "You're too good for me-" he begins again, in a voice like harsh ocean tide breaking against smooth sand.
But she tells him the same thing every day, in whispered words and silent smiles, and each time is like the first: his pulse throbs and he falls a bit more deeply, wholly, dangerously.
You were all I ever wanted.