Highest ranking
#1 in utopia
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"It's about how your hips move," the hand that sits on my waist finds my hip, his fingertips trailing lightly along the fabric of my skirt. "When you arch your spine," he continues on, letting that same hand migrate...
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Kian still wears the same three piece suit which he wore during our dinner when he finds his way to my bedroom. Upon his arrival, part of me is positively thrilled that he has managed to conduct this entire escapade unscathed, and raised no suspicion of the entire façade. All the while, a second, domineering part of me is completely petrified, wondering if he has been watched by Eason, followed by another. Perhaps my face displays such - the curve of my lips which I had hoped to be a soft smile, resembling more of a twisted and pained grimace. My eyes, which I had thought to glimmer like sun struck oceans, swimming with relief, instead washed stormy dark with unparalleled worry.
His eyes dare not stray from my face as he approaches and that momentary smile soon falls, his expression quick to mirror mine as he sits himself tentatively on the edge of my bed, one leg lifted to rest on my mattress as the other sweeps along the floor, an action triggered from pulsating anxiety prickling his nerves. A restless hand rakes through the mass of gelled hair along his scalp, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he inwardly sighs in relief at its long overdue disruption. "I've made you mad, huh?" His hollowed tone holds a sense of finality, despite his words being poised as a question, as though he is already fairly convinced that to be the case.
"What – no," I assure him, shuffling forward with choppy movements, soon close enough as to take the hand he has braced on my bed in mine, fiddling with his long fingers, skimming over the newly forming callouses along his palm from his daily visits, before lacing my fingers between the waiting spaces of his. "I am not mad."
"Then why the long face?" He probes with dissonant, artificial humour. I regard him with a slanted brow of question.
"This is one of your old-world sayings?" He nods, his face melting with a simper, but moves to say nothing. Patiently, he waits for the explanation behind my worrisome expression which is yet to relax, still contorted in a perturbed manner. In implicit encouragement, he lightly squeezes my hand and gently coaxes me towards him - as easy task, considering my willing obligation. He shuffles to accommodate my frame, letting my curled body rest in the space between his muscular legs, the blade of my shoulder rested on his sturdy, sculpted chest that hides beneath the white dress shirt. My head slots perfectly beneath his chin, though I let my head turn slightly, just enough so that I see his shoulder in my peripheral. "I fear you're reckless." I admit.
His sigh whispers against the skin of my face, and he begins nosing my hairline, his free hand smoothing the length of my cedar hair, directing it gently to spill over my shoulder. With a soft kiss to my forehead, he speaks; "I always have been." Once more, I resort to fidgeting with his hand, tracing languid patterns along his sun-marked skin with my left hand, not daring to let our interlocked fingers break.
"This, this evening, was far more reckless than I could ever have imagined, even of you." He says nothing, and as a silence stretches, I take it upon myself to shatter such. "I was blindsided, and my reaction was entirely genuine, and readable too." The hand that still caresses my hair transitions to rest on the soft curve if my shoulder, laying a light pressure as it moves along to the hollow above my clavicle. "Eason knows."
