Once my feet are bare, he climbs onto the bed, moving up over me on his hands and knees, slow as melted honey, until his face is hovering above mine. He kisses me again, softer this time, and his hands start their work.
The hem of my sweater first. He slips two fingers underneath it, just two, and drags them in a single unhurried line from the waistband of my pants up to the bottom of my ribs. Goosebumps follow his fingers like he’s calling them forward. He lets the fabric bunch in his fist, peels it up an inch, kisses the strip of skin he’s uncovered, peels another, kisses again. By the time the sweater is off my arms and tossed somewhere over his shoulder, I’m breathless.
He sits back on his heels to look at me.
“It’s a miracle that something like you even exists in this world,” he mu
