He crouched silently in the corner of the cramped, dark room. Boxes, piled high around him, cast shadows so deep they almost seemed to move. The man's eyes flicked from one shadow to another, the circuits of his brain trying to sort out the details of the scene. But it was impossible. Edges and lines seemed to shift, and slide out of focus when he looked at them. Somewhere in these shadows was the diamond, waiting for the warm envelope of his hand. He wanted to reach out, and fumble until he caught that glittering piece of glass, but he could not. He would tell his hands, "Go, go and find it," but then his eyes would catch a movement, or not a movement, and send the override. So he remained frozen, and his knees trembled in the darkness.

She lay on her side, eyes burning from lack of sleep, as she watched the sun rise through the edge of the window. For the first time in her life her hands had touched rigid warmth and she wasn't sure what to do now.

They'd gone to a party, she'd gotten drunk and he'd offered a portion of the large bed to keep her from driving home. She'd been sober enough to recognize the sense of it, sober enough to keep her clothes on and take her shoes off when she crawled into the bed. Somehow that sense had evaporated as soon as she felt his feather-light touches against her skin.


They'd felt innocent at first, his caresses. Maybe it was her own innocence she'd sensed and not his learned intentions. He was just reassuring her, caressing her arm in the night to let her know he was there, he was awake and she was ok. That was all it was. Then his hand moved a little further up, to her shoulder.

She'd held her breath at that moment. Her heart began to race and her eyes popped open from the alcoholic slumber she'd almost delved into. This most certainly didn't feel right. He shouldn't be touching her shoulder like that. He shouldn't be touching her at all, he should be sleeping.

Then there came the sigh, a sleepy noise made moments before a person rolls over and drifts into foggy lands. Only there was no rolling over. No retreat to his own side of the bed. Instead there was silence, then he scooted a little closer and wrapped his arm around her.

He'd felt more of her flesh in that act than anyone else in her adult life. That anyone might want to touch her, like that, was surprising. Heady. Warmth spread through her chest and was quickly followed by flames in her cheek. This was wrong. He shouldn't be touching her. She shouldn't let him touch her. Why wasn't her hand moving to stop him?

Why was her body frozen in place, a statue delicately carved to invite the exploration of curious fingers?

His body heated her back though it wasn't touching her. Not yet. It was his hand that invaded with its caresses. His arm that imprisoned with its weight. He shifted, locking her in what she'd once considered a lovers embrace. Fingers twined together forcefully, it would never be so lovely for her again.

Spooning. That's what it was called. Spooning. Only in her mind, in the movies, it had always been a post coital experience. Something done as bodies came down from that glorious rollercoaster of flesh and pleasure. Something couples did. Never would a lover move to embrace her from behind, to grasp her fingers and let her know that they loved touching her, without her first remembering this moment. Her first embrace. Her first...

Fingers moved in rhythm over her own digits, coaxing them to seperate, suggesting so much more.

By now the adrenalin rushing through her veins had killed off the drowziness brought about by alcohol. She was wide awake. More awake than she'd ever been. Her heart beat so fast in her chest she was sure he could hear it. Surely he could feel the frantic pounding in her veins as it echoed throughout her body. Why then, was his hand moving up her arm again, towards that terrified heart. Oh, not the heart but that which covers it. The trembling mass of warm flesh hidden beneath delicate material.

Her eyes strained to see in the dark, strained to see her breast as his hand infiltrated the black top and seized the softness beneath. It was too dark for him to see the pink against the creamy white. Too dark for him to see the fear and confusion and excitement mingled in her eyes.

Inside there was a voice screaming for her to stop him, telling her that all she had to do was stop his hand and he'd desist his explorations. Still she didn't move. This wasn't what she wanted. Not drunken fumblings in the cover of dark with someone she shouldn't be touching.

It'd been so long, she'd waited so long for someone to touch her. To want to touch her.

He was massaging her breast now, occasionally running calloused fingers over her nipple hoping to bring it to life. But she was too nervous. Too confused with what was happening. It wouldn't demonstrate its glorious fullness for him. Frustrated he went back to her hand, only this time he clutched it firmly and moved it.

Till now her body had been still as stone, she'd made no resistance to his minstrations, but neither had she rolled to her back to make it easier for him. He had just placed her hand over a bulge and left it there after pressing it firmly against the heated mass.

And like a poseable Barbie she stayed like that. Her hand firm against his heat behind her, his moving over her body and trying to slip where her tightly clenched thighs wouldn't allow.

cough, cough

All movement froze. A mumbling sigh and shifting signaled the removal of his hand from her breast, allowed her the sense to bring her own hand up to curl under her chin and cover the bits he'd sought earlier.

She lay on her side, staring wide eyed into the darkness, trying to find something to focus on until the sun rose. A bright line of light creeping slowly upwards where the curtain didn't quite meet the wall. He was awake as well, behind her, but he didn't move. He couldn't move.

His girlfriend was curled against him, a leg flopped over his thighs.

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