Butterfly fingers and Whispered kisses

There I will make thee a bed of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies

William Shakespeare, Sonnets to sundry notes of music [XX.]

"This is rather strange," she says, and her breath tickles and torments my lips, making goosebumps raise on my legs. Her body pressing into mine, pressing and making liquid fire dance where we touch, skin to skin.

"What is?" I ask, reaching up to touch flaming hair that makes me think of amber and rare stones.

"Us," she says, sitting up on my thighs and picks up another flower from the bunch on the floor, placing it on my left nipple, her fingers barely grazing skin. "Us in bed together." Her lips are almost upon mine and I almost lean up to close the distance.

"It's not strange. It's love." I won't do it. I will lay here and wait for her to move.

She kisses me, placing a rose petal in between, making the kiss soft and sweet. She smells like the flowers that surround us. Her hands graze along my sides, finally, finally a real touch, petals from wild flowers mixed with roses falling away, leaving skin. I arch up into her hands, and she pulls them away.

"Cho, be patient."

It's hard to be, as she looks down at me, her smile sensual and slow.


She kisses me again, this time without the rose petal between us, and the softness of her lips is much more welcome than the petal. She slips her tongue, sweet and slippery, over my lips, into my mouth, and the smell of a thousand flowers is nothing, nothing. I am more than ever aware of her body touching mine, her silky skin blending together with the flowers, her smell with theirs. I sigh, and let my hands wander her body, lightly brushing down the backs of her thighs, her spine, and finally moving to her breasts. I kiss her neck as she moans, hiding her face in my shoulder as my fingers slip ever lower, teasing her into agony, her fingers fumbling along my skin as well.


Afterwards, her lips are as red as the roses, and her hair is filled with posies.