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Her ink-stained fingers traced small circles evenly on my palm. Lying on my stomach, I read passages to her from Descartes’ Discourse on Method as she slid her tongue languorously down my spine. The sensation sent delicious shivers flowing throughout my body with a feeling like that of thousands of ethereal fingers dancing across my naked skin. Sliding up next to me, she studied the words I was reading and draped an arm over my bare shoulders, twisting my hair around her finger. I turned my head slightly to kiss her delicately on her beautiful white marble cheek then turned back to resume reading.

After a few moments, she closed my book. I opened my mouth to protest, but she placed a finger to my lips and I immediately quieted. Moving her hand from my mouth, she gently traced her finger down my jaw-line. Resting her other hand on my neck just below my ear, she leaned in and placed a small kiss on my mouth. Again and again the tender kisses came, warm waves washing over me at each touch. Finally taking my mouth in hers, she parted my lips with her tongue and entered. The manner in which she kissed me was breathtaking. Her tongue sliding against mine was a slow pulse, languid and supine.

Now seated on top of the burgundy bedclothes, I pulled her up to sit, ensconced between my legs. Her long delicate fingers ran slowly up and down my back and then she rested her forearms on my hips, her slender ivory wrists crossed behind the small of my back. Leaning into the kiss, she deepened it, her tongue dancing arduously inside my mouth. I reciprocated the movement fervently. Placing my arms around her sacred body, I pulled her close as we embraced. She leaned into me, placing me off balance, and sending us tumbling off the bed unceremoniously in a tangle of white legs and vermilion bedclothes. Crawling over to her, I poised my face mere centimeters from hers and gazed into her eyes, running my fingers though her hair, which was fanned out about her head, creating an ebony aura around her exquisitely pale face. Before, in affectionate mockery, I would claim her as “my ivory paragon.” At that utterance, she would laugh that delightful laughs of hers and I would shiver inside.

Now, positioned over her, I buried my face in her neck, and whispered those words: “My ivory paragon.” The ambrosial peals of laughter followed, along with internal shivers as she sketched circles leisurely on my back with her beautiful fingers. Lying down next to her, I draped my arm about her waist as she turned onto her side to gaze at me. There we remained, naked, entangled in burgundy bedclothes, basking in the warm sunlight coming from the window. I reached up and took the book off the bed, opening it in front of me, and rolled onto my stomach. I began reading out loud to her again as she went about drawing small circles lazily on my back again with her ink-stained fingertips. My beautiful ivory paragon.