Date: 2008-01-21 07:19 pm (UTC)
Well, then.

When he leans over to kiss her mouth just so, his long hair falls over her like a cape; he's been wearing it tied back less and less these days for the simple purpose of letting Faye's fingers run through it, clutch at it, tangle in it. There's something so tactile and beautiful about the whole thing, and for someone who thrives on contact of all sorts, that sort of touch -- the oblique, flirtatious, not-quite-hands-on-his-skin-but-can't-keep-them-off thing -- is such a turn-on. It speaks of hints and promises, of pleasures yet to come, of lazy hours curled up together with more and more and more touch.

Maybe it's an artist's thing or a musician's thing. All he knows for sure is that it's his thing and he loves it, drinks it up, lives for it, craves it like the addict he is. No twelve-step program can wipe the desire for this out of his system. Somewhere deep down inside he suspects it could get overwhelming with the wrong partner, but this feels good and right and there certainly haven't been any complaints from Faye.

Like she says, she's an appreciative audience, and he doesn't care if lust is supposedly a deadly sin: he's probably already dead, so why not indulge to his heart's content?

"You want to try it out?"
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Faye Valentine

March 2008

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