In the darkened room, his fingertips were his eyes. But then she - lying there, her breath shallow and unsteady - was all he desired to see. For that, the whorls and arches served well as instruments of vision. Across the silk of her cheek to lips, parted just enough for her warm exhalations to chase the chill from his fingers. Then down, down, tracing the bows and curves of her body. A bit of pressure here, the slightest touch there. The gaze of his fingers eliciting whispers and sighs which evaporated in the darkness.
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