Title: Hands

Rating: probably PG-13, but I'm rating it R to be on the safe side.

Summary: "Her neck is warm and smells a little musty like sex and sweat and innocence..."

Disclaimer: I don't own or claim to own any of the character etc.

Notes: This was just an experiment. A play with forms. Does it work or should I just stop writing altogether? Hmm...

Hands

_______________

Heat. Rain. Confusion.

A heavy pounding of bleak drops against a blue-black night sky.

A film on his tongue, not quite sweet. A throb in her head, not quite painful. A weight on his chest, not quite solid.

Her neck is warm and smells a little musty like sex and sweat and innocence and he burrows further into her, trying to drown in that scent.

Then the memories surface:

A quiet slide.



Shadowed movement.



A desperate plea to stay the night.




A hand on his stomach pushing him back until the back of his knees hit the bed and she comes tumbling down on top of him.




A whispered 'please...just please.'


Her mouth tracing suede and skin, dipping into his clavicle. A tiny scar just off his shoulder she tries to tongue away.


His mouth tingling from smooth strawberry-kiwi lip balm and a trace of mint schnapps when her tongue connects.


A slow rock of hips.



Even slower kisses.



An echo of thunder and a wave of regret when he sees in her eyes she has been saving this for someone else.


Overwhelmed by the vulnerability in his gray-blue eyes. Open and naked and at her whim.


--

Marissa smiles as she resurfaces to the waking world, remembering how they touched until they were weighed down by exhaustion.

She had never been quite so aware of her senses. Tastes, touches, sights, sounds, smells, she'd never been aware of before have opened up and fed into her overstimulated body. She'd been a virgin before. Now she knows.

Heady, rich aroma.



Low, rasping breaths.



Salty-sweet skin.



The truest colour of blue, honey skin and wheat locks.



The feel of a hard-heavy body of another moving inside her. The rough glide of flesh and sweat creating friction.



A tense pull.



A feeling of straining.



A hearty build.



And then a crash.



A wave of empowerment and then a slow languid fall.




Ryan stirs next to her. He keeps his eyes closed. A fear rises in him that he will look around and it will all have been a dream.

He realizes the rain has no real rhythm. Just a staccato of disconnected notes.

He is so acutely aware of everything now. The burn of her sapphire eyes scanning his face. The feel of her fingers enmeshed in his hair and scraping his scalp. The beat of her heart between their nakedness. He notices everything.

Stormy blue eyes open and his breath catches and his stomach pulls tight.

Her palm comes to rest against his rough cheek. Her lips are plumped from sleep and bruised from their kisses. Her hair is a tangle of silky locks curtaining her face like a veil.

He rests his hand on her cheek, mimicking her actions; lets it sashay down the curve of her neck, slowly, as if to memorize her with his fingertips.

His shoulders are square and to Marissa, he looks strong enough to hold up the weight of the world. She takes his hand in hers. Ryan's hands are rough and calloused from hours of hard work and fighting.

Gently, reverently, she strokes his fingers and palm and then lays a gentle kiss on his knuckles. "I love your hands," she says.

He lets out a derisive laugh. "Why, because they remind you I'm from the wrong side of the tracks?" he asks, a little too harsh. He pulls away from her.

"No," she answers quietly, "because no one has ever touched me like you have. You make me feel things I never knew were possible, Ryan." Her eyes are soft, pleading.

Last night they spun a fantasy into a tangible reality. It was desire forged in sweat; a fraudulent copy of sex, because it's more than that. It's not quiet love, but they both realize one day it could be.

She closes her eyes, suddenly drained.

"Marissa."

She's almost asleep when her name brings her back. She opens her eyes groggily and wipes the shock from her face. He's so close she can feel the heat spilling off of him. His voice is hoarse as he whispers her name again and it's like trying to grip reality for him, she realizes. His eyes are shining as he lays his head against her breast and lets out a shaky breath. "Shh," she soothes.

He quiets as they scramble to hold onto the moment; to hold onto each other.

Touching her supercedes the need for sleep. He rests his eyes, but his hands and fingertips continue to explore the contours of her hip and thighs.

He's a stranger. A criminal. A drifter. A dog with no tag.

Yet, she's never felt this way. So safe. So protected. So wanted.

Marissa's not afraid to live in her own skin with him. She knows he wouldn't laugh if she told him her plans to be an artist in Paris or the road trip she plans to take after she graduates. She knows he'd understand if she asked him to pose so she could encapsulate his features in a sculpture in a golden tan of sienna; a deep, rich earthy clay.

"I'm going to fall in love with you," she claims.

"You'd be the first," he replies and she understands.

He touches her with those rough hands, sprinkles her body with sinewy sweeps of exploring fingers and scraping nails.

She arches into his touch, bites her lip to keep from crying out.

I love your hands.