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He was asleep now, finally . . .
He was asleep now, finally . . . . . . and she<b> watched </font></b>him for a few minutes, his back arched over the side of the mattress. She was containing herself, though she could still feel herself reeling from that luscious praise his hands had given her a moment ago. She was afraid of that. was deadly. That faint, unreal sliding of his skin along her arm and down her spine, that touch of him just when she thought she could still resist. Somewhere inside she was turning over in her mind those many alternatives: not him, not right now, not in this private, space she had carved out for herself, that place where she was safe, even if alone. But he had come in more than once, she had let him, and she wasn't even sure any more that she could keep him out. Why was always that way? Because was no safety in being alone: was quiet but nothing else, and so she had let him in. Every word he had said her had mattered, but none of them did. She<b> watched </font></b>his eyes carefully see what he really thought, how he was burrowing into her life by understanding the gentle turn of her imagination, that lush explosive flow of nerve, adrenalin, skin and lips focused fully on his mouth, the rapturous shortness of breath, a moan, coming to him with her intense, serene, and devastating hunger all which someone willing be fully consumed by would welcome. And he did. |
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