Seventh Wonder by Renae Kelleigh

more of Browning. Maybe Frost.”
    “You would be the expert,” he conceded.
    Seconds ticked by. Meg wanted to ask about his first love, but something stopped her, pinned her tongue against her teeth. Perhaps it was a feeling he should be the one to volunteer such information. Or perhaps she was delaying the imminent possibility that she should feel the need to compare herself to someone he had once loved. That was a fight she could never win - not as long as she fought it with herself.
    “Your food is getting cold,” he pointed out.
    Meg nodded once. She picked up her bowl and resumed eating, never tasting the food as it passed her lips. Her thoughts were too remote to lend themselves to something so menial.
    John took her dish when she was finished. She watched as he walked both bowls to the sink and ran water in them. When he turned to approach the bed again, his expression had changed. He was no longer trapped in his thoughts: he was blasting them at her.
    He sat on the edge of the bed, his body angled to face her. Meg sat up a little, clarifying he had her attention. When he cupped the side of her face, her breath left her in a soft whoosh.
    “The first time I saw you” - he chuckled, shook his head slightly - “you were a vision in that ridiculous pink dress, traipsing through the forest like some kind of wood sprite.” His thumb traced her cheekbone, and his voice dropped in reverence. “Beautiful girl.”
    Meg swallowed. So many thoughts swirled inside of her, she felt dizzy. Seeing the mess of emotions, she didn’t know which to pick up and examine first - which to feel. She couldn’t hold all of them.
    “Kiss me,” she whispered finally, so softly she wasn’t sure any sound had come out.
    His eyes blazed, and then he did. Submissive, trembling lips driven by the power of a man’s body, pushing mightily against hers. He kissed her in earnest, now with more of an edge. This time his tongue pried at the seam of her lips, and when they were fully committed, him unto her and her unto him, he groaned very slightly. Meg felt a rift open beneath her. She didn’t care whether she fell or not, so long as John fell with her.
    They moved past the initial shock of it, and their hands began to move. Gliding, stroking, squeezing. John leaned into Meg, pressing her back against the mattress. Her knees fell to the side, allowing him space to move over her. He touched her face, her hair, her neck, her shoulders. His fingers mapped out the side of her ribs and the flare of her hip; his hand brushed over her stomach and grazed the underside of her breast.
    Meg turned on her side, determined to maximize their conjoining surface area. She bent her top leg and hooked it over his hip - and at that he shuddered. His hands froze, one wrapped around the back of her neck and the other at her waist. His chest heaved against her as he breathed great, insatiable breaths.
    Logic didn’t apply - at least not in the way one would normally think. There was no physics, no judgment. Those principles simply didn’t exist. It was a heady feeling, being free of them. Rather than bashful, Meg felt emboldened. She saw John’s hesitancy for what it was: not a sign of disinterest, but an indication of chivalry. He was frightened of pushing her too far.
    Actions, not words. Meg covered his hand, the one resting at her waist, and pushed it downward, until his warm palm came in contact with her naked thigh. The shirt she wore had ridden up to her hip; it nearly crested her silk clad buttocks.
    A little guidance was all it took. John’s misgiving was gone, replaced by palpable yearning. His movements were restive, bordering on reckless. His hand moved down and up and down her leg, growing more pyretic with each pass. His teeth lightly abraded her earlobe, while his lungs shoved heavy gusts of breath against her neck, just above where the shirt buttoned.
    Meg’s skin tingled from the blood that thrashed against it; she needed his bare skin