"It's waxing."
He knew even as he said it that she would not answer. Even though she liked to chat, there was something here that did not want talking. It seemed odd it would be him to break the silence when it was always he that reveled in it, dancing in sound's emptiness like a spirit alone among loud men. He much preferred listening to her talk, although she knew how to make him ascend the nearest soapbox if he wanted to watch him rant. The sound of her pitch rising and falling was enough to keep his attention, but often she said things that were disarming and witty and, sometimes, so innocent his eyes would rise from her lips to her green eyes expecting she was teasing him. Her so called windows of the soul expertly hid the truth of her mind; one of those things he was always drawn to.
But this night she was not speaking. And he could tell the night wanted it so. Instead he watched her stand there, looking up at the sky. The orange tinted lights from the city ruined any chance to see a true array of stars, but still she stared up at the only thing in the sky worth seeing. It was three days in the making from the new moon, though he did not care for the moon when she was there before him. His thoughts and desires were more earthbound.
Instead, he used this opportunity as he often did when chance allowed. The street light nearest them cast a nimbus about the crown of her head, darker in color but shining in response where the light caught a tress and ran down as far as physics would allow. He followed where the light left off down the back of her head and the tumble of her hair past the top of her back, some of it lying chaotically on shoulders he longed to trace with his lips. Down the back he often imagined bare before him, pale in the darkness, a source of light he could touch. But that was imagination. It was hidden from him even as it seemed so near to his fingertips; barred from him by fabric and the thick walls of civilized propriety and fidelity. Even while he gnashed his teeth in frustration, he relished in the sweet dichotomous agony of desire.
Her legs were not quite shoulder width apart and he could see the light just below where her legs parted from her center. His eyes lingered there on the inviting swell of her ass. As if on cue, she shifted her weight and the movement was enough to make his heart pick up the pace and his lips part for a quiet intake of breath. He realized in that short space of time he had forgotten to breathe since he had spoken what seemed an hour gone. His lungs ached in response, but not nearly enough to overcome the deeper ache that was growing within him.
He shifted a little and looked away. It was hot out, but what was new this time of year. He looked to the side down the length of the road and tried to refocus his mind. He could feel the sweat on his brow and just the overall stickiness of being outside. It would be nice if a breeze would come and cool his skin, cool the fire in his belly. Not like it mattered. He had to get back anyway. Slowly walking toward her, he could feel the gravel crackle under his skin. On such a quiet night it sounded like it was the groaning of the tectonic plates. The few feet between them became a few inches and he stood behind and a little left of her, his eyes automatically drawn over her shoulder past the collar and the swell of her neck, along the collarbone and to the sweet valley between her breasts. Halted by the hem of the shirts neckline he traced his way back, his eyes caressing her skin, up her neck and over her chin to lips that begged to be kissed. He bit his lower lip hoping the little pain would focus his mind elsewhere. It didn't work.
Suddenly, as if she could sense his discomfort, she turned to face him, those same lips turning into a smile. "What?"
"Just admiring you."
"Oh, stop," she mumbled looking away again.
"No, really." It was then that he took the chance. He slid his hand along the small of her back, as she looked back at him her eyes widening in something like mild alarm. The die was cast, so he had to follow through come what may. No time to think about her response, just hope and act. He stepped closer and his lips touched hers. He could feel her shoulder against his chest as his hand tightened on her hip, his other hand pulling her a bit closer. Just a closed kiss, but the softness was so inviting he paused only slightly before kissing her harder, his tongue pushing past to dance with her own. A part of him was surprised that instead of pushing him away, she leaned back, then slowly turned while they kissed, each kiss a little longer than the last. He loved how she tasted, and how she responded to his passion in kind with her own. This was better than he imagined.
He raised his hand to her face, his thumb just along the soft underside of her jaw, the rest of his fingers gently cradling her head just behind the ear, deep in her hair. Her arms went around his waist, one up his back to rest on his shoulder and pulling him down to her as he paused to glance at her eyes; the other hand sliding behind his waist gripping his shirt in her fist. He could feel himself rising and his other hand cupped that rear end he had so often watched, gripping it lightly even while pushing her lower body against his to let her feel the effect she had on him. The pressure of her against him was so intense he found it hard not to throw her on the ground and take her there, in that very moment. It was then she pulled back gently, looking up to him.
