Green in the light of an armory. Green against the backdrop of a church. Green over drinks, over cake, over trivialities. Green in his reflection, staring back at her, his fingers penitently wrapped around her calf. The cut of the back was low and sleek, and a bra was out of the question. Underwear probably was, too. When he danced with her, if he danced—she had an odd suspicion he would if she asked him to—then his hands would have no place to rest without finding open skin. She remembered the feel of his fingers tracing patterns on her thigh, some indistinguishable sequence of calculation.
...more
