There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved ~~George Sand
He looks down at her, then immediately turns away. He feels like strangling himself. He brings his eyes to the television. Looking but not at all watching. His mind is oh-so-far-away.
He looks down at her once more, but this time he can't bring himself to look away. His eyes acute as always, drink her in. They start slowly, leisurely, as if he has no control over them. They begin, at her feet, wrapped in cloth, and he wonders how many times have those feet hit him. Those tiny feet. Like those of a fairy. Fairy feet. He almost laughs.
They move up to her legs. Smooth, almost impossible smooth legs. Soft to touch. Silken. He imagines brushing his rough, hard hand across those beautiful legs.
He frantically attempts to pull his eyes away from her tempting limbs.
He prays to any god at this moment that she does not turn around. His eyes once again resume, as if the person that they belong to did not just have a panic attack.
Slowly …to her thighs. The pleasantly widest part of her. The little flare of her hips, that gives her such a figure. Despite of everything his big rude mouth said that was his favorite part of her. His dreams often reminded him of that. Dreams where he was free to roam on the skin of that luscious flesh. Pressing himself, holding her to him, locked. Forever… preferably.
He is losing his brain now. Not that he had much to begin with, but now he fears that it is all gone. Slowly, but surely drowning. He likes this death, drowning in all that is her. His mind is committing mutiny with his eyes as first mate.
He is going to lose.
His eyes travel higher even. To what is covered by skirt and shirt. A toned yet tender stomach. The kind he would lay on. A pillow. The nicest pillow he could lay upon. He knew that there was not an ounce of unnecessary fat on her. In blessed moments when he carried her, or not so gently pushed her out of the way, in seconds he felt. Muscles contracting, the softness. How he wished to explore, how he yearned it.
Mutiny. He hopes his hands will stay loyal to him.
High they go. He had been dreading this part. Dreading yet eager for it. If his eyes were out of control might as well go with it. His brain did.
Two round masses that were accented by her narrow waist. Breast. The words hung in his mouth. He knew about them. He did have four fiancées. For other reasons too, of course. First hand knowledge.
He flirts with the thought of actually touching her. There. Feel their weight in his hand, maybe… sneak in a kiss.
His heart thumps in his chest, painfully. Perspiration appears on his forehead. His pulse is fast, NASCAR fast. Blood zooms, to one point in his body, leaving the rest of him depleted. His brain especially. Vivid visions appear.
His hands caressing, never, never having enough of her, skin toughing skin, limbs wrapped, tangled, lips traveling, sounds of lust, smells of love, mouthing words in ecstasy. Kisses, movement, flowing, withering.
He can feel, see what is happening to him. And he is ashamed. The rise of him, his pants shirking, and he wishes that she would slap him.
Then, he notices that her hand is moving inching closer to him. Her face is turned, to the television, never blinking, fully immersed in the film. Her hand is closer, and he cannot move.
His body has given up on him. He is no longer the captain. He is a prisoner.
Her hand is over him now, over the limb that took all his blood. He briefly wonders how much pain will he be after the single moment of pleasure.
Why do the gods hate him?
An innocent touch. By her part. She pats again, and he has no idea what she is doing, but a perverted side of him wants her to continue.
He takes a breath. Almost a gasp.
The light from the screen plays upon her silken skin. Her eyes illuminated, pools deep rich honey.
Prefect lips. Pink. Wet.
His brain decides to give him a message.
'This is not helping you, dummy.'
She looks down at where she has her hand. She removes it. Very quickly. A blur.
"Uh..." She squeaks out, her face in flames. Cute. The blush. She looks mortified. He wonders what his face must look like.
"I.. I'm.. The remote." She finally says.
Her face is turned, embarrassed. Next to him is the remote. His hand takes it and gives it to her. She takes it, and turns up the volume.
"I'm... uh ...Sorry"
His eyes widen she apologizes. She apologizing? Why?
Weak. Weak. His is so weak. Confess. Confess. Tell her. Tell her. Now.
He is not going to listen. How. He wants to. He wants to so much.
He doesn't want to be...
She will. She deservers better. Better than anything he could ever offer. He can't he can't because than he will lose her. She will leave.
So he keeps his mouth shut. The one he opens only to insult.
How he hates himself.
He can see her, telling him that he is a fool, that how could she possibly love him? She laughs at him.
That is all he has ever felt. Until she entered his life.
He turns to the television, and sees the end credits. Its over, their time together.
She just sits there. Her soft petite hand in her lap. He remembers their warmth, when they held hands together once. Small delicate hands.
She stands, and looks at him. He feels he is not worthy of even her gaze.
He looks up; the word is rich in her mouth. He could listen to her voice forever. Saying his name.
He is lost, staring at her brilliance. How can she be so beautiful?
She flows away.
He sits. There is a bubbling in his chest. He knows what this is.
Please Review. I would like to improve in my writing. For reader's pleasure.
Happiness is like a kiss - it feels best when you give it to someone else. ~Author Unknown
His hands shook, as he dug into his pockets. Her eyes were staring at him, a inate joy present. This was the moment, it was perfect. The moment had come.
She exhaled, then brought her hand up to his face. She was soft. Warm.