Confrontation & Confession Part Three
249 Words
She tried to make a joke—some flippant line about dim lights being more forgiving—but the words caught in her throat. He was already kissing her feet. Each toe, each arch, with a devotion that made her toes curl. She couldn’t move.
She could only feel.
He worshipped every inch of her—ses genoux, ses cuisses, l’intérieur de son nombril, le creux de ses hanches, ses épaules, ses paumes, ses poignets… His tongue traced forgotten places, his mouth painted sonnets into her skin, and her breath caught in sobs she tried to disguise as laughter.
He kissed her like he was drinking from a holy spring.
She trembled. “Julian…” she whispered, almost a warning.
“I know,” he murmured against her belly, “Je sais…”
And then—the fall.
Her body arched, shattered, melted into him. She wept and moaned and giggled all at once, her fingers in his curls, her voice whispering mon Dieu, mon Dieu as he filled her with something she had never known before. Not just youth. Not just heat. But love—tender, blind, defiant love.
They did not leave the floor that night.
Their bodies met over and over, sometimes slow as a prayer, sometimes urgent as thunder. Her laughter rang into the rafters. His name, whispered into the skin of his shoulder, became a vow.
They fell asleep wrapped in limbs and breath and the kind of silence that only dawn can break.
- Writer
