[She leans into his kiss, surrendering to the immediate, intense pace, her fingers delicately running along his scarred shoulders, the arch of his ribs, feeling warm skin and solid muscle. She remembers how much he seemed to enjoy his reckless kisses, dark and smothering—and she parts her lips for him without prompting, attempting to please him in the only way she knows how.
There is something about his demeanor, however: a sense of reluctance, although there is no hesitation in how he holds her, how he peppers her with eager kisses. For all of his bold posturing, once the undressing began, moving them into a fragile new stage of the evening, it is then that he had begun to act queerly. The thought of him being inexplicably reserved about his own appearance never strikes her—after all, he is a man. Particularly when it comes to new lovers, it is then that men are supposed to be at their pinnacle of masculine dominance, or so says the scandalized, drunken gossip overheard at parties.
May he be having reservations, after all? Or perhaps he cannot gather enough fondness in his heart for her, not even enough for the physical act—? It must be very hard to make love to a woman he finds unlovable, a wicked doubt whispers to her. He could love her: that's all he had promised. He could, but doesn't that also mean he couldn't? From how he's behaving, it certainly seems so.
With a little gasp, she breaks the kiss, the question pressing heavily in her throat. There is little point in asking if he would like to continue, if he even wants her for something as base as intercourse, not when her lips are still tingling from the force of his kisses.
The only genuine answer is in not his words, but...]
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There is something about his demeanor, however: a sense of reluctance, although there is no hesitation in how he holds her, how he peppers her with eager kisses. For all of his bold posturing, once the undressing began, moving them into a fragile new stage of the evening, it is then that he had begun to act queerly. The thought of him being inexplicably reserved about his own appearance never strikes her—after all, he is a man. Particularly when it comes to new lovers, it is then that men are supposed to be at their pinnacle of masculine dominance, or so says the scandalized, drunken gossip overheard at parties.
May he be having reservations, after all? Or perhaps he cannot gather enough fondness in his heart for her, not even enough for the physical act—? It must be very hard to make love to a woman he finds unlovable, a wicked doubt whispers to her. He could love her: that's all he had promised. He could, but doesn't that also mean he couldn't? From how he's behaving, it certainly seems so.
With a little gasp, she breaks the kiss, the question pressing heavily in her throat. There is little point in asking if he would like to continue, if he even wants her for something as base as intercourse, not when her lips are still tingling from the force of his kisses.
The only genuine answer is in not his words, but...]