His hands were like velvet against my skin, satin trails traced down my frame with silk fingers. Does he know what those soft, smooth digits do to me? I think he must know, with the expert way he seems to touch all the right places, at the exact right moment, all to earn the delicate hum that rests low in my throat. Another swift stroke inside my thigh makes it a gasp caught on the way out and he laughs.

I love it when he laughs, it's the most pure sound in the world. Probably because it doesn't happen very often. He's a mostly serious person, most of the time. Even a chuckle is rare form for a person like him. But he does it so beautifully on those rare moments they happen.

The world tilts on its axis and everything's blinding white heat for one desperately blissful moment, until it's over as quick as it started. Stardust still tingles against every inch of my skin, burning bright-hot when the velvet of his hands traces back up, up, up until he's curled up behind me, arm settled against my middle like he has to hold me in place or risk me leaving forever. As if such things could ever be dreamed of.

I'd never give up that burning silk touch.