She brushes her fingers over his face. The muscles of his temples flex as a smile ghosts over his features. She dusts her fingers along the lines of his forehead, dipping them into the crease between his brows, which deepens momentarily as he frowns.
Her thumbs caress his closed eyelids, brushing the delicate lashes. There are faint shadows beneath them, the skin tinted darker than the rest of his face, and she strokes this discolouration as if she can wipe it away.
She smoothes her fingertips over the curve of his eyebrows, traces the line down to where they meet his sideburns, and then strokes the strong line of his jaw until her fingers meet at the cleft of his chin.
From there, her fingers move naturally up to his lips, marking their outlines in sweeping lines that broaden as he smiles. Her fingertips disappear into his dimples and then she draws her hands away, feeling an emptiness at the lack of contact.
His voice is deep, as if he’s suppressing a chuckle, and his eyes, when he opens them to look at her, are dancing.
“Okay, I take it back,” she admits, sliding her hands into his hair, tangling her fingers in the brown locks. “You’re not a long streak of nothing. But you have to admit one thing.”
He tilts his head to one side, his hands resting on her naked hips, his fingers cool against her hot, sweaty skin.
Donna’s shoulders roll back, emphasising her bust, which, until a short time ago, was covered by a purple lace bra. She smirks, leaning forward so she can whisper in his ear, which has the added advantage of bringing her best physical features directly into his line of vision.
“Your curves have got nothing on mine!”
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