This girl wore a blue dress and smelled of a pale melancholy he could not place. He knew her to be tender; this he tasted himself — but it was her eyes, her vigilant, half swollen eyes that spoke of her fear to love.
It had been not a fortnight before her sleep was robbed. Cherubim masked thieves of mental reprieve danced upon her brow as the tiny blonde hairs between her lips, and her lips, stood at attention through night's end.
A yearning had consumed her. She wanted more than to fuck him; fucking was for lesser men, and she fancied herself a worthy woman.
