Amalia
stop thinking so much
How couldn’t she be caught when he looks at her like that, as though she were a prize, a treasure, something more beautiful and vibrant than the reality could ever be? And how can she not return it time and time again: ardor for ardor, measure for measure, her own smile lighting and heating her face? Amalia glows beneath his regard, her mind turning sinful, scandalous, knowing and wanting and yearning for more. He draws near and her breath catches; his lips are on her ear and she curls her toes, an unbidden gasp exhaled in response, always tantalized by his ministration, biting her lip to hold back the moan.
Then he is gone, and the absence is painful, palpable against her chest. She reaches out as he pulls away as though she might catch him between her fingers, rise on her toes and take him there, pull him between her arms, her thighs. Her face is hot with desire, aflame; it is good, perhaps, he is not looking, for the things in her expression are feral and hungry, avarice written on every line.
He leads and she follows, always follows, a ship on a mooring, a kite on a string, keeping a distance so she can admire him as he walks away. Upstairs and down a hallway, to a room that lies beyond, the silver tub claw-footed and large enough, the intonations clear. Suddenly mischievous, suddenly wild, Amalia waits until he looks away before slipping off her skirt, so she stands in nothing but a blouse and underwear, leaning against the wall. Her heart is pounding, her narrow cheeks flushed; she regards him through challenging, dangerous eyes, waiting to see what he will do, how he will respond.
you're breaking your own heart
