She made love to me with her eyes, her glance running over my body, her hands trembling to get close enough to touch, our worlds separated by an impossible expanse – our bodies so close, with nothing but three inches of bullet-proof glass to keep us apart.
She asked me if there was any word on when I might get out, if there was any chance for an early parole hearing, but there was no reason to give her any hope that my situation would change; her husband was still dead, and his brother was still the mayor.
With eyes closed, languidly resting against the chaise, anticipating her companion’s next move; she hoped for something sweet, whispered flirtations, invitations for a rendezvous or four, and the indirect promise of a romance.
With eyes open, lids heavy, body leaning against hers, showering sweet kisses along her neck, and across her jawline, he hoped that his camouflaged words of sensual promise also conveyed to her the promise of more to come; a future.
It’s getting pretty ridiculous now, how much I think about you. I would tell myself what you always used to tell me — suck it up and shake it off — but then I’d just be thinking of you again, wouldn’t I?