A stolen afternoon. The air heavy with autumn and sleepy dreaminess. The half dark of a curtained room. Unexpected. The slow unbuttoning of a crisp white shirt. A tempting line of lace. Laughter. The careful, studied curve of a collarbone. A trace of lips. Of finger tips. Ley lines of luminous telepathy. Kisses softer than breath. Softer than smoke. Built with premeditated anticipation. Curled around smiles and closed eyes. The unhurried line of shadow and skin. Languid. The hours marked only by touch and the moving of the green lit sun. Until the light grows soft. And then dark. And streetlight filters through the quiet.