Takes hold of hands -- MUCH MORE AKIN TO WINTER'S TOUCH THAN BLESSED WITH THE KISS OF SUMMER'S -- and harvests them within his own. Lifting them up t'wards divine countenance, a kiss is placed to porcelain wrist and held against that mouth; released only in partial, as he still holds them within his grasp.
THE SKIN HOLDS A LINGERING WAFT OF PARCHMENT; nestled within, the familiar scent of freshened linen still cloaking pale, blushing wrists. a small, albeit visible start: the sensitive nerves tickled by welcoming butterfly touches. the ravenette knows not to tug (the brunette will only tease him or trick him, then). instead– he will memorize what it feels to be enveloped by immortal adoration.
“Mistletoe tucked into each and every crevice? Why so zealous with this fine decorating, I wonder.”