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But instead she laid my fingers flat on her shoulder again and gently guided them along her shoulder and back again, then nuzzling down into my hand. I could feel the warmth of her cheek. I reached my other hand behind her head, stroking her hair, highlighted by the sun shining through the kitchen window and traced my fingers round her cheek and under her chin, which I gently moved up so she was looking directly at me. Her eyes sparkled, deep and blue, her lips, smeared with only the most delicate pink lip gloss, parted, showing her even, white teeth. I bent down towards her, my breath rather ragged, but I veered away towards her shoulder and kissed the pink patch lightly. I felt her squirm with pleasure and sigh deeply. I took a chance, kissing her further along her shoulder, then on the side of her neck.
Ever felt like you were on some sort of adventure that’s being filmed by some cosmic director, as if your whole life in one particular instance was a solo scene out of “Thelma and Louise”? That summed up my feelings at the moment quite well. I stepped out of my old 1976 Buick Skylark convertible, which was coated in a blanket of desert dust. The sun was merciless and beat down like an alcoholic drill sergeant, but I couldn’t flip on an AC switch because–surprise, surprise–it didn’t have one that worked. The open air was all I had to cool me.