Amalia
stop thinking so much
A sigh escapes her coral lips, upturned, content, here in his embrace, his fingers on her lower back, his mouth upon her chest. She arcs her sternum up to meet him, humming low at the soft affection, the absolution of his ardor. Goosebumps rise across her skin, a shiver running up her spine; her legs tighten around his waist as she exhales a note of happiness, savoring each moment, each each breath. It is with reluctance that she finally rises, water pouring from her hair as she one more straightens in the tub, her dark eyes open and full of him, and oh, the expression on her face says more than language ever could. Oh, her gaze sparkles, her cheeks cry, Oh, you're here, and everything is okay.
Pushing herself at last from his lap, Amalia reaches for the shampoo, working her hair into a lather as he dips his head into the tub, soap suds rising around his shoulders, his curls dark and smooth as ink. A crooked smile lights her face (it never left, never leaves, always there when he ignites it, lurking in the corners of her eyes); she watches the leviathan's ascent before dipping her own head back into the water, scrubbing dirt and soap from her hair, her face. "There," the baker announces as she ascends, her long locks plastered to her shoulder, the last of the blackberry gone from her cheek. "Now we look civilized enough to fool them all."
you're breaking your own heart
