Breath across her neck, light, quick, and full of sly want. Inhale filled with his musk, his sweet forest before high sun one nearly summer morning, rhythm on that inhale, shy glisten behind his ear, beats. Slow. Sedate pine, steady vanilla, pulse and pace.
He speaks and the words slide around her ears, like promises and desire, thick and low and hot. He waits and she says something, or smiles, and he chuckles easily, his back arching just enough to push his ribs against her chest and that just-lit forest musk is all around her with the pressed cotton of his shirt and the twine of his legs as they glide between and beside hers.
His hands wander in the curve of her spine but all she knows is the low gravel of his voice, the soft lilt of his ask, the heat of his statement. They move around his words, the gentle persistence of melody curving steps and exhales and hips. She tilts her head so her ear is at his lips, lets the richness of his want trickle across her cheek and into her hair.
And when, finally, the music stills, and she leans back to meet his eyes, she falls into the trees of special exception that live where he sees, flying free across a leaf covered path as the sun hits the apex of endless senseless sky.