That brings on another chuckle, laughing into her mouth — that sentence doesn’t even make sense — but his ribcage is warm for hearing it, that frigid carved-out hollow slowly filling with something more. Something bubbly and fizzy and sparky. It’s stupid.
“Hopefully not literally,” Stephen says, jokingly. His knee fits between hers, his hand against the bracket of her cheek, instinctively finding their way back to lying comfortable and entangled in her bed.
And it would be so very easy to be swept away and to lose themselves in this, in lingering kisses and touches and giddy smiles and a pleasant morning in,
except that they both have minds and memories like steel traps, and he never leaves a task unfinished. And so as his thumb traces Gwenaëlle’s jaw, Stephen adds quietly, “Your turn.”
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“Hopefully not literally,” Stephen says, jokingly. His knee fits between hers, his hand against the bracket of her cheek, instinctively finding their way back to lying comfortable and entangled in her bed.
And it would be so very easy to be swept away and to lose themselves in this, in lingering kisses and touches and giddy smiles and a pleasant morning in,
except that they both have minds and memories like steel traps, and he never leaves a task unfinished. And so as his thumb traces Gwenaëlle’s jaw, Stephen adds quietly, “Your turn.”