Nape

It was dark in the room, cosy with the curtains closed against the December snow. Eerie quiet outside as the weather was keeping drivers out of town. A different quiet inside as they kissed their private hello.

He stood behind her, close, pressed against her back. His lips were against the curve of the top of her shoulder by the edge of her dress. He stroked her hair upwards from the nape of her neck, and let it tumble through his fingers, slip through his fingers, fall through his fingers. Fall against his cheek, the fresh-washed scent filling his head. She closed her eyes and the afternoon and the room and the moment became the stroke of his hand and the fall of her hair, and the stroke of his hand and the fall of her hair, and the kiss on her neck and the stroke of his hand, and the fall and the fall and the fall of her hair...