[That flusters her most of all, when he speaks so boldly like that, ashamed and the color bright in her cheeks, a flush of red creeping down her exposed throat, their knees brushing together and the handsome, boyish youth of his face drawing closer to hers. She cannot even manage to shake her head, not this close, her lips parting and opening to silently protest, her breathing shallow, the nails of one hand leaving the stinging imprint of red crescents into the peach-soft flesh of her palm. The tension within her is threatening to overwhelm her, and she thinks of consequences, of the shame this will bring, but her heart feels as if it's going to burst—]
Please—
[Her voice is barely more audible than a whisper, plaintive and pleading, shivering from the summer heat of his flesh. She looks as desperate as any deprived lover: lightly sweating, breathing in thin, ragged gulps of smoky air, her eyes glassy with the feverish beginnings of panicked excitement.]
Please, don't—
[He leans in and her lashes flutter close, on the precipice. Don't stop, or don't go any further? She is caught between yearning and wanting something, but is she wanting for distance or closure? She doesn't love him—in the short span of an hour, or even less, that she has known him in the sweltering embers of afternoon, a woman cannot fall in love. But aren't there true accounts of love at first sight? No—what this is, it feels much less clearer than love, a product of it, or perhaps an imitation, a feeling much more potent and thunderous and obscured. He overwhelms her, and he shocks her—yet he also flatters her, and he is kind to her, in his own rugged way, and—oh, she doesn't know what to think!]
no subject
Please—
[Her voice is barely more audible than a whisper, plaintive and pleading, shivering from the summer heat of his flesh. She looks as desperate as any deprived lover: lightly sweating, breathing in thin, ragged gulps of smoky air, her eyes glassy with the feverish beginnings of panicked excitement.]
Please, don't—
[He leans in and her lashes flutter close, on the precipice. Don't stop, or don't go any further? She is caught between yearning and wanting something, but is she wanting for distance or closure? She doesn't love him—in the short span of an hour, or even less, that she has known him in the sweltering embers of afternoon, a woman cannot fall in love. But aren't there true accounts of love at first sight? No—what this is, it feels much less clearer than love, a product of it, or perhaps an imitation, a feeling much more potent and thunderous and obscured. He overwhelms her, and he shocks her—yet he also flatters her, and he is kind to her, in his own rugged way, and—oh, she doesn't know what to think!]