@dishonaesty / cont'd x
The side of the bed dips again, followed by a hollow clonk of a glass of water by the table.
Clark’s weight is warm and curling. Trapping, too, with the arm hung across her and elbow firmly pressed into the bed, having travelled back to her-- not because she’s a capo who talks murder when stirred awake too early at six when he comes back from the gym, even sporting watered down apple breath doing human stuff (I’m not about to surrender myself to the authorities so the CIA can tell me how I burnt yesterday’s calories). But because he doesn’t want to lose her to another dreadful Boravian-Jarhanpur cake-dance of words.
His fingers skim the out-of-place fizzes around her hairline.
‘ You’re right… You’re absolutely right. ‘ --Trampling through the underbrush of a fight’s the way to jump start a relationship.
He melds his lips with hers, feels the gravity of her body shift and settle under him everywhere they touch. A hand finds its way to the slender crawl of her arm. He takes her lips in his again. It brings out the minutes, stretches them into an undulating peace that looks past the edges of a yelling, burning universe.
‘ - Good? ‘
