He closed his eyes for a moment, just listening to the sound of her voice.
“Maybe we feel a little different, then,†she said. “I like reading too, but we keep it platonic.â€
Loch laughed, but it was a quiet laugh. His voice came out soft, the tenor of someone woken up in the middle of the night, unsure if he was still dreaming or not. "Have you never read poetry before? ee Cummings "she being brand"? Donne's "To his Mistress going to bed?" Or Yeats? His "A drinking song" is kind of like this. Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye..I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh."
He opened his eyes and looked up at her, the way her hair spilled over her face, her hands on either of his shoulders. And he felt guilty.
“It’s not really your fault,†she assured him. “I was thinking about it, and I think you were just… drunk, and you got a bright idea to deal with your craving without hurting anyone. That is the noblest reason I have ever heard for an attempted demon-prostitute summoning.â€
He was not thinking noble thoughts right now, not even close. He was thinking about how easy it would be to bring one hand up to her the thin patch of skin where her shirt gaped just enough before her pants and brush his thumb across it in slow circles, and how he could take his other hand to brush the hair out of her face--what was his obsession with doing this?--and kissing her, hoping that one thing might lead to another, and that if she was any other girl he might have already tried.
He reached up and brushed his burned fingers across her hip, gently, but let it drop back to his side with something of a groan. "You're too sweet, Chloe. That's going to get you in trouble."
The last of his words faded into a mumble, along with his consciousness.
“Maybe we feel a little different, then,†she said. “I like reading too, but we keep it platonic.â€
Loch laughed, but it was a quiet laugh. His voice came out soft, the tenor of someone woken up in the middle of the night, unsure if he was still dreaming or not. "Have you never read poetry before? ee Cummings "she being brand"? Donne's "To his Mistress going to bed?" Or Yeats? His "A drinking song" is kind of like this. Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye..I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh."
He opened his eyes and looked up at her, the way her hair spilled over her face, her hands on either of his shoulders. And he felt guilty.
“It’s not really your fault,†she assured him. “I was thinking about it, and I think you were just… drunk, and you got a bright idea to deal with your craving without hurting anyone. That is the noblest reason I have ever heard for an attempted demon-prostitute summoning.â€
He was not thinking noble thoughts right now, not even close. He was thinking about how easy it would be to bring one hand up to her the thin patch of skin where her shirt gaped just enough before her pants and brush his thumb across it in slow circles, and how he could take his other hand to brush the hair out of her face--what was his obsession with doing this?--and kissing her, hoping that one thing might lead to another, and that if she was any other girl he might have already tried.
He reached up and brushed his burned fingers across her hip, gently, but let it drop back to his side with something of a groan. "You're too sweet, Chloe. That's going to get you in trouble."
The last of his words faded into a mumble, along with his consciousness.