by Jane Davitt

He touched her so often the brush of his shoulder against hers in the stacks, with the books silently watchful; his hand on her arm, guiding her through a dark graveyard; the tap of his finger against her shoulder as she dozed, face pillowed on paper that refused to yield its secrets but was crinkle-soft against her cheek...innocent touches, all.

Then she came to school in summer-short skirts, arms bare, hair up, showing her neck, kitten-downed and pale, and there was nowhere safe to touch her anymore.

Bare skin under his hand - and she moaned, and saw his ignorance end.


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