Chapter 31A
s if from a great distance, as soundless as pantomime, Rita registers Matt’s arm draped across her bare hip, his body spooning hers in a warm and solid embrace. She turns around, slowly to not wake him, although she can’t resist touching him, describing the line from his brow to his jaw with her fingers, his skin smooth from his hairline to the bristly eyebrow, smooth again before whispery scritch of new beard. She rests her open palm on his sternum, splays her fingers to feel his heart thrum. Then breathless, bold, she caresses his hip, the length of his thigh, holds the velvet weight of his s*x in her cupped palm, is just about to nuzzle the hollow above his clavicle when Gabrielle whimpers, breaking the spell, slipping the film from its sprockets, slapping Rita awake and in
