[She's trembling, she's exposed, as vulnerable as a bride on her wedding night, her nerves jittering just as badly as when the white lace hem and layers of ivory chiffon had fallen away. Watching him draw nearer from beneath her lashes, she thinks he might just be teasing, a cruel attempt at heartbreak, but then he takes her by her shaking chin, and—
If there is anything she is assured of, is that he is purely genuine when he meant to kiss her. If there is anything in the world that can incite the hopeless romance in her, tainted from cynicism over the years, is a gesture with good intentions and nothing but love—and it must be love, or at least affection—behind it. His kiss is not as innocent as hers, not at all like the faltering touch of her lips, but is just as bold and forward as the rest of his demeanor. For how much she feared he would turn violent, his lips remain firmly closed against hers, but no less passionate.
He told her of his intentions, but she is surprised all the same by the taste the whiskey and smoke on him, motionless against him. Perhaps he might take her lack of protest as encouragement—and she should protest, after all, she is a married woman. She could catch his skin between her teeth, or scream, anything rather than allowing him to ravish her mouth, the tension in her rising in a crescendo, torn between action and submission.
She chooses the latter, meekly accepting the kiss, not quite ready to reciprocate without coaxing. Her hand stirs on her lap, her fingers straining for a moment, as if reaching for some phantom of the past—but the moment passes, and her hand traces the angle of his jaw, the warmth of her fingers barely ghosting along his face. It is not quite a caress, but yet another abandoned attempt at protesting, a gesture of half tenderness and half frantic confusion. Her eyes are wet, and finally, at last—she parts her lips for him, exhaling on a bittersweet, breathless sound akin to a cry.]
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If there is anything she is assured of, is that he is purely genuine when he meant to kiss her. If there is anything in the world that can incite the hopeless romance in her, tainted from cynicism over the years, is a gesture with good intentions and nothing but love—and it must be love, or at least affection—behind it. His kiss is not as innocent as hers, not at all like the faltering touch of her lips, but is just as bold and forward as the rest of his demeanor. For how much she feared he would turn violent, his lips remain firmly closed against hers, but no less passionate.
He told her of his intentions, but she is surprised all the same by the taste the whiskey and smoke on him, motionless against him. Perhaps he might take her lack of protest as encouragement—and she should protest, after all, she is a married woman. She could catch his skin between her teeth, or scream, anything rather than allowing him to ravish her mouth, the tension in her rising in a crescendo, torn between action and submission.
She chooses the latter, meekly accepting the kiss, not quite ready to reciprocate without coaxing. Her hand stirs on her lap, her fingers straining for a moment, as if reaching for some phantom of the past—but the moment passes, and her hand traces the angle of his jaw, the warmth of her fingers barely ghosting along his face. It is not quite a caress, but yet another abandoned attempt at protesting, a gesture of half tenderness and half frantic confusion. Her eyes are wet, and finally, at last—she parts her lips for him, exhaling on a bittersweet, breathless sound akin to a cry.]