They settle together, dissolving into one another, the only lovers left awake or alive in this place. She flinches on the entry, her knees squeezing his hipbones, hurts some. She envelops him with her arms, presses close. She didn’t know that were allowed to kiss, she kisses back. That was something she knows how to do, confidently. She gets what she desired, closeness, but there is a strange, supernatural exchange occurring underneath this, a side effect of the union. There is something to his touch, something bright. Something like hers.
A fantasy, but veiled with melting worry. It is in her blood to delight in romance and pleasure and the theatre of love, the exchange of it. Where she is from, lords and ladies of high-stepping courts, graceful and wispy and splendid, glowing, could appear to only stare at the other. And yet, a pure, heated scenario could be unfolding in the dreaming, their minds experiencing an invisible, heavy mist of disorienting pleasure. She is obviously not learned in these ancient, passionate arts of a people she’s ignorant of being affiliated with. She is not even a novice of them. She is entirely unaware of what she is capable of. Sometimes, though, in spurts it glitters out, glints, like a mirror catching the sun checking its own reflection.
As he glides in this dance with her, her still shy of it, both of the brightnesses of them glare, share each other.