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grickgrack
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ripe berry soul
she reclines back in the chair as if stargazing, luminous in the glare of the sunbeams. her yellow dress flutters slightly in the warm breeze. her soul would match the wildflowers that sway so gracefully in fields. she bites into a peach; her lips are as voluptuous as the berries next to her. she turns a page of her book.
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“Tell me how it feels.” He commands.
Camilo drops a peach – soft and weighty – into the palm of your hand. You drag your thumb across the skin, feeling the fuzz against your fingers and trying to think of a way to respond, but no matter how much you wrack your brain, you come up empty. You pull your lower lip tight between your teeth, furrowing your brow and he can just see all the gears whirring inside your head.
Wordlessly, he places a hand underneath yours, meeting your eyes, and you can feel your heart skip a beat in your chest.
He’s lifting his hand. He’s lifting your hand.
And Camilo bites into the peach, still holding your gaze and your hand and hell-bent on not letting go. His upper lip just barely brushes your thumb, pushing a wave of electricity all the way up your arm.
A bit of peach juice dribbles down your wrist, the gravity pulling it down your arm like a race against time, and he catches it in a kiss, ever so gentle against you and fast enough that you can barely register what happened until his lips depart from your skin.
He sees you in front of him – wide eyed and somehow still holding the air in your lungs – and he leans in close, letting the warmth of his breath ghost against your neck.
“So, how did it feel?”
Reblogged straig
Reblogged straig
Reblogged straig
Reblogged straig
Reblogged straig
