The first touch was not a collision but a slow convergence, like two rivers meeting in the dark. His fingers traced the delicate architecture of her spine, a silent question asked agat her skin. In answer, she arched into his palm, a soft sigh escaping her lips to mist the air between them. The scent of her, warm vanilla and night-blooming jasmine, wove itself into the clean linen smell of his shirt. He lowered his mouth to the sensitive curve of her neck, his breath a hot, damp promise that made her shiver. Her own hands slid beneath his clothing, finding the solid, living heat of his back, her nails lightly scoring the muscle. The world narrowed to this single room, to the whisper of fabric falling away and the heavy, rhythmic sound of their breathing. Every point of contact was a small, bright star igniting across the map of their bodies. They moved together then, a single, fluid entity discovering a language older than words.
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