Her hand grasps mine.
Touch.
Her touch.
I look at our hands touching, up into her eyes.
She pulls me with her to the bed.
She sits on it, holding her chest.
Gasping slightly in pain.
“Are you?—“
“Shhhh,” she says as she interrupts me. She lies down on the bed, with a pain-ridden face, but gesturing for me to lie down with her.
She lies on her back, and I lie down on my side, my head propped up on one elbow.
She puts my hand on her thigh.
“Caress,” she says, her head falls to the side. She watches me.
My hand does as told.
I caress over her thigh, slowly up and down, around it and up her inner thigh up to her sensible area. But I don’t touch it. I do what I was told to do.
Never did I believe this would happen.
But it does.
And I let it.
She grasps my jaw.
“Kiss me,” she says.
And I lean down with my elbow to kiss her.
A kiss that causes goosebumps to spread on my arms.
A kiss that could go on forever.
A kiss that I long for from the depths of my core.
My hand wanders from her thigh higher, up to her belly. I am close to grasping her when I remember she has been shot.
So I pull my hand back.
“Open my trousers,” she says.
I hesitate.
“Do it,” she says demandingly, and stops the kiss.
So I do it.
“Caress me,” she says as she looks in my eyes with a flicker of desire in hers.
