ETAN
Etan lay his cloak on the hay again and they settled on it, side by side. He was careful to lay on his back, one arm under his head, thinking that not looking at her would help him keep his hands to himself, but as soon as she got down, she lay her head on his shoulder and began to stroke his chest. His stomach clenched. He knew he had to stop this, or they would give in. But every time she touched him it was as if he came alive—not just with desire, but… something else.
Neither of them spoke. He let his hand trail up and down her back, while she played along his chest and stomach, like a child drawing lines—except he could feel her breath shallow and quicken. When she flattened her hand on his stomach, he froze. Which direction would she stroke? But she slid her hand slowly, slowly upwards.
