Once more, a double hit for the day I missed.
Now she leans forward, and she looks at the black lacquer box beneath. She sees the leaves and the stem of the roses, almost a neon green against the dark lid. The roses themselves are that beautiful blushing pink – the same colour now as the skin on the back of his neck. What kind of tiny brush would have made those strokes to so perfectly capture that detail? It is not an extract vision of a flower, but it is a rendering of exquisite and tender precision.
Her thumb arcs down, and she pinches his skin, more like a nip made by a tiny, toothless kitten. He judders forward, and makes a sound that’s like purring.
Urging forward a little more, her mouth hovers just above his ear.
“I’m amazed at the work on this one,” she says. Her voice is steady, objective, and doesn’t reflect the inner knot of heat in her chest that’s formed listening, watching, and touching him. “It is just so fine and–” she pinches again. “Delicate.”
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.