[ She's not gentle, and it has nothing to do with her newfound strength. What if he changes his mind? What if he realizes he doesn't really want this, doesn't really want her, in this body or otherwise? She's wanted him for so, so long that she'll take even the desperate desires of a doomed man. She'll have time to wallow in self-pity later; right now, she can pretend.
She's sketched him so many times that, although she hasn't touched him in this way before, she can tell how much he's changed since that last night they'd been together, and that terrifies her, too. Will it be gunfire that catches him in the end, or will the war take him away, little by little, piece by piece, bullet by bullet, until there's none of him left? So she kisses him, touches him — eager, needy, desperate.
It's not until she realizes that she's backed him up against the tree that she stops. For a second she looks mortified, then it softens into embarrassment, accompanied by a quiet laugh. ]
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She's sketched him so many times that, although she hasn't touched him in this way before, she can tell how much he's changed since that last night they'd been together, and that terrifies her, too. Will it be gunfire that catches him in the end, or will the war take him away, little by little, piece by piece, bullet by bullet, until there's none of him left? So she kisses him, touches him — eager, needy, desperate.
It's not until she realizes that she's backed him up against the tree that she stops. For a second she looks mortified, then it softens into embarrassment, accompanied by a quiet laugh. ]
Sorry.
For pushing you. Not... you know.