In the Quiet Night
In the quiet night, he pressed his hand against hers, and felt the way hers pressed against his, so smooth over his hard palm, so small. It amazed him still, the small gentleness of it, as he closed his hand over hers, his thick and calloused knuckles standing like guardians against all who might threaten her, and more, the proof of how hard he would work to keep her happy.
Her free hand touched his cheek, and ran gently across his evening stubble. A manicured finger, so different from his own reached out to brush gently over his lips, feather light. His lips parted, kissing it as it moved. She smiled at that, then let her fingers trace his jaw. He shivered at her touch as her fingers passed his ear and slipped into his hair.
Her eyes traced the path of her hand.
"Look at me," he whispered longingly. And as she looked up, he lost himself in her eyes, a warm blue-gray smoldering in the dim light, lit with a secret fire that took away his breath. His hands, moving on their own, drew her body, warm and soft and willing against his own, and his lips, forgetting how to speak, plundered her mouth.
And as he pressed her to the bed, covering her with his want and his need, and his hardness, and the aching in his soul that whispered all the words he could not say, she wrapped her legs around his thighs, and smiled.
"Aren't babysitters wonderful?" she asked, and then kissing him deeply and thoroughly, proceeded to demonstrate just why that was so.