"I can put a fire on."
It is freezing in here. It is not so cold that he can see his breath. But, each of them are covered in goose bumps, not entirely the making of each other's company.
"You already have."
The cold atmosphere is a sharp contrast to the hands caressing her. They are warmer for it. She feels him more acutely. Each stroke sizzles at its application, transferring energy into her, melding the temperature between them. Each egress brings about a rush of cold, enabling the room to steal away what he has just given her. She finds the circulating eddy currents about her skin exhilarating.
"I should close the curtains."
The window is at the rear of his cottage. A glance outside reveals his garden in monochrome. They will have tea there in the morning when the colors wake up. Since he can see out, it might be possible for someone to see in. The curtains of the house butting against his hang tightly together. Should they open, it is unlikely that anyone be able to see into his bedroom. Just in case they can, he should secure their privacy.
"Keep them open."
The moonlight casts onto their bodies and their movements. She arches into him to give her a neck. She watches him apply himself to her in silhouette on the far wall. She admires the flashes of light that coincide with the sliding and merging and posturing of the two dimensional shapes. The image is sharp enough to see his tongue flick to her collarbone before he applies his lips.
"Do you need..."
He must have forgotten something. Does she have all she needs? Is she comfortable? His room contains one bed, barely large enough for the both of them. The white sheets, slightly starched, are taut under two layers of olive green wool blankets. He is grateful that he allowed himself the luxury of a second pillow at the time of his move. Aside from the two of them, all else it contains is a nightstand, supporting an enameled lamp and two books. There is also an armoire for his suits, smalls and assortment of casual clothes.
Her senses are full of the man in front of her. He smells of sandalwood soap and warmth. He tastes of wine and chocolate. He sounds of rumbles and textures more complex than her education affords her. His looks are calm and complex, daring and shy, surrendering and concerned and all together gorgeous. He feels. Oh, he feels like boat tied at a dock as a storm surges. A shelter that knocks about more dangerously because it is tethered.
He doesn't know what he wants to say.
She presses her index finger against his jaw to direct his attention to the wall behind them. She sees his recognition in profile and, then, face on as he snaps back to her. Her eyes flit back to the wall. Watch.
The female silhouette finishes undressing, revealing a structure seen twice in flesh: once on stage, once post blindfold. Never like this. As the arms are lifting away the fabric from the rest of the body, different hands explore a waist and lowest ribs. Gaining confidence, they move to explore a local apex - hard in shadow, soft in flesh. He rotates his hand to see more clearly how the weight of a thumb manipulates the direction and amplitude of other's diminutive peak. He registers the revealing of a deeper curve below the waist facing away from him, a shallower curve of a thigh, emanating from a barely visible fuzz.
The petite set of hands has set to removing clothes from the larger body. The shadow is briefly indistinct as it shapes a bulk downward movement. A hooked finger pulls a string, another hand finds the other and another form is cast down, revealing an appendage. It is handled delicately. One hand becomes a plinth, letting the other pet along its length until one tapered tip circles around the other in small rings. A picture of the Sistine chapel flashes in front of him, forcing an inappropriate guffaw.
He looks at her, embarrassed and pleased, nibbling at his own lower lip.
She tips her head to the back wall.
He shakes his head to deny her, for once. He wants her, not her shadow.