Clay’s P.O.V
Delicate. That was the only word that I could conjure up as I looked down at Flora on my bed. Her long red hair was sprawled across the cream white sheets like ripples of liquid silk. Her skin looked pale in the moonlight, but as I traced my fingers up her sides, I was struck anew with just how soft her skin was. Had I ever touched a skin quite as soft, as delicate as hers? I couldn’t remember and I realized with a start that I didn’t want to. The moonlight streamed in through the open windows and touched her skin, making it glow. It was like even the moon was her lover tonight.
I wanted to laugh at myself. Since when had I been a poet? Never. And yet, as I continued to take my fill of Flora, continued to touch, to taste her delicate skin, I found out that I didn’t mind a l
