His fingers moved and danced across her bare back, dark even in the moonlight: her brown skin, and the contrast with his pale hands. He touched her shoulders, let his fingers follow the arc of her arm down and then back up; and down her back again, finding the curve of her hips, tenderly touching her thighs. He moved slowly, deliberately, for maximum effect: down the outside of her leg, and then up the inside, allowing himself to gently cup the soft folds at her center, tasting the damp with his fingertips, imagining what was to come.

She murmured softly, wanting him both to continue what he was doing, and move on: she was in a quandary, wanting at once for time to stand still and to move on rather more quickly. But he was in no hurry, and would hear none of her protests. When she tried to move, to greedily grab more (say, of his wandering, probing fingers) by putting herself in his way, he made clear that she was only prolonging her agony and would have to stop. Finally, she succumbed, conceded to herself that she could not control the situation and allowed herself to tumble, deliciously, into that free-fall space where her aroused passions took over, took hold, shook her and made her feel effortlessly alive.

She felt him stiffen against her, the gentle push and glide, felt his fingers all over her; his teeth grazed her neck, his soft voice in her ear heightened her frenzy and her reaction inflamed his: a perfect storm, for a moment, and then they held tight and were still in the summer night, brown skin against white, resting to regain their strength.