The large grassy precipice of Crow's Point was empty, an unbroken expanse of green grass that stretched toward the sea on one side, toward the village on another, and on the third back toward the path and road they'd just walked. There was no artificial illumination up here, and the lights from the village shopfronts and homes weren't enough to create more than a quaint tableau that looked like a model train set far below. But the stars overhead were bright, blinking and twinkling and shining without competition, and they cast enough light for them to see where their steps flattened the thick grass, and more than enough light for Ross to watch how Amber's face beamed as she took in the view.
She looked out toward the horizon first, then turned her head slowly in the direction of the village, for a long minute just blinking. Then she smiled, and clasped at his hand, which she hadn't yet let go. Finally, she whispered, “It's all so beautiful,” in a voice so hushed that he almost might not have known she'd spoken at all, except that he found it very difficult to tear his eyes away from her lips and the way that they glistened in the starlight as she smiled and spoke.
“It certainly is,” he said, still watching her.
She turned to him now, and abruptly giggled. “You're not even looking!”
“I am so!” he told her with a chuckle. But then he quickly quieted, shifting on his feet so that he was facing her, and reached out with his free hand to caress the round part of her jaw. “I'm looking at you,” he told her softly. Then he bent his head down to hers, lifting her face at the same time (or maybe she did that; he couldn't quite tell). And in the warm space halfway between where they stood, their lips met, clutching in one soundless kiss, then another, and still yet another.
Ross let go of her hand at last, trading her fingers for the gentle curve of the small of her back; he felt both of her arms wind their way around his shoulders, and she pressed up into his embrace, humming faintly against his mouth. There was no swaying or shuffling, just the soft and sweet-smelling squeeze of her body against his as their lips and tongues danced a delightful give and take of blooming desire.
I think because I live in an age where romance has become cliche, it's difficult for me to take a lot of what I read and see and hear seriously, when it comes to the more tender side of things. But I still try my hand at writing it. Sure, it can be cringe-worthy at times. But isn't that part of what makes it so damn fun?
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