There was an ocean above us, held in by a thin sac that might rupture and let down a flood at any second.

Spring, if it lingers more than a week beyond its span, starts to hunger for summer to end the days of perpetual promise. Summer in its turn soon begins to sweat for something to quench its heat, and the mellowest of autumns will tire of gentility at last, and ache for a quick sharp frost to kill its fruitfulness. Even winter _ the hardest season, the most implacable _ dreams, as February creeps on, of the flame that will presently melt it away. Everything tires with time, and starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself.

I__ frozen in place as his eyes rake over me.

He__ letting me see the real him, something he doesn__ allow a lot of people to see.

A soft moan escapes me, making him smile even more. He's too good at this.

His lips are against my ear and I feel the warmth of his body surrounding me, caging me in, comforting me.