A thought:

He reads, softly and clearly. The pages are turned with musical crispness; he smoothes them with large, gentle hands. The light is warm, golden, transforms the pages from a pale white to a creamy ivory, and reflects in his eyes. The room, quiet ... as though existing purely to accomodate his voice, which speaks the words with rhythm and surety.

I lay my cheek against his lean, sturdy shoulder; my breath comes slow and gentle as I listen. He smells like soap, and ... himself. I stay at his arm; our legs entwine. I watch his toes flex and curl. He smiles when I brush his neck with a finger, and tilts towards me -- the heat between us grows in anticipation -- his eyes drop briefly to my mouth. But his smile becomes sly, and he leans away. Not a word is missed.

I sigh. 

The seduction continues.