“There’s an art to this.” She had her hands full of ribbons, red and blue and green and black. It was the only thing on her body, except the high-heeled shoes.
“An art?” He lay sprawled across the bed, watching her. He liked watching her; his eyes tracked the sway of her ass, the way the ribbons trailed across her breasts, the way one foot moved in front of the other. She, on the other hand, wasn’t looking at him. She didn’t, often, never had, really.
“An art. A craft, if you will, a skill, a decoration.”
“I don’t want to be decorated.” Her hands were obscured by the ribbons; he couldn’t see what she was taking out of the dresser. “What are you doing?”
“Most arts have their tools.”
“Tools? Not just the ribbons?” Those ribbons trailed down her back lie curls of hair, although her hair was now cropped short, baring her neck. Once, he’d watched the black-blue locks make little s-curves across her spine. Now he tried for a look at her hands, only to be foiled again and again by the turn of her hip, the drapes of the ribbons.
“Of course not. Don’t… that would be silly.” She twisted one arm behind her back, just as she pivoted on her heel to face him. She was smiling. He wasn’t used to her face with a smile on it. He wasn’t used to the way it lit her up, the way it hitched something deep in his throat.
“I’m not silly.” He frowned at her over the thumping of his heart. “I want to know what you’re doing.”
“We all have wants.” She crossed the distance between them, too fast, far too fast for her short legs. “Do you want to know what I want?”
The ribbons draping off of her breasts were nearly touching him. He swallowed and tried anyway. “Do you want to know what I want?”
“Of course.” She smirked at him, as if she knew it wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “And do you?”
It was a test, wasn’t it? “Yes?”
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