Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
4th Jan 2014 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #OutJUNE10th #priorities
It seemed eerily silent, and the faint lapping noise he was making struck me suddenly as absurd, like a dog drinking from a stream. I took hold of the hair at the base of his neck, and he looked up, startled.
"Talk to me," I said.
"What?" He had been absorbed in what he was doing; the fog of concentration began to clear from his eyes as he made belated sense of my words. "Talk? Now? About what, for God's sake?"
"How should I know?" I said, rather crossly.
His mouth was wide and soft, and dampness gleamed from his skin. His lips twitched, evidently wanting to resume what they'd been doing.
"Well, d'ye want me to make love to ye, or d'ye want me to talk?" he asked reasonably. "I've only the one mouth, after all."
"I want--" I said, and stopped, helpless. There was no way to explain my sense of emptiness, of isolation; my need to feel once more that sense of absolute connection.
I wanted him to seize me, sweep me out of my desolation, rouse my flesh and obliterate my mind.
"I want _you_," I said at last, in desperation.
He stared at me for a moment, then wiped the back of his hand across his lips. My fingers were still sunk hard into the hair at his neck, holding on. He didn't pull away, but wriggled higher in the bed, put one arm around me and drew me firmly against him, so that his cheek rested against mine, and I was pressed tightly against him, body to body.
"Ye've got me," he said simply.