She lay there for a moment, her chest still rising and falling from the first one, her hair damp against the armrest, her skin carrying that post-release warmth that sat differently from the fever flush that had been there when he arrived.
Then she moved.
She pushed herself up from the cushion slowly, her arms finding their strength, and turned toward him where he was kneeling beside the couch.
She came up onto her knees on the cushion, facing him, the blanket falling away from her completely, and she was right there, her chest bare and flushed, her hair loose around her shoulders, her amber eyes carrying something in them that had nothing of the sick whisper from the floor in it.
She put her hands on him.
