he who hesitates is toast

She shivers as he draws his touch up along her spine, sinks a hand into his hair as she kisses him again with slow, lazy presses of her mouth to his, savoring the taste and feel of him, the shape of his lips, the slight scratchy brush of stubble against hers.

Her other hand drifts down along the slope of his left shoulder and over the curve of what remains before tracking down to spread her fingers over his ribs, feeling him breathe into her palm. "You are," she tells him, soft, "the most beautiful thing in the world."