It was when she was lost in her thoughts, about thirty threads too deep, that he knew her the most.
It was when she was lost in her thoughts, about thirty threads too deep, that he knew her the most. The guards would falter and tumble from their posts, and she would relax a little, enough for the reality to seep through, past the make up and the composition, and show in her face. It was why he watched her so often. To begin with she’d thought he was being weird, asked him to stop, tried to pass it off as making her awkward. He didn’t doubt that it did; but awkward is only ever temporary, a transition between the unknown to the familiar. And so, after a while, she stopped finding it awkward. She was a little charmed by it, in fact. He was attentive. Fascinated. Fascinating. Her hands would wander, fingers playing with lips, thumbs trailing through hair. Just as eye movements show you which part of their brain someone is accessing, he started to map her thoughts to her body, watching where that hands went, and extrapolating the rest. The thumb in her mouth, she was safe, thinking about something that she enjoyed. Probably him. That one always made him smile. And when her fingers found her hair, and started twirling? Well, naturally, that meant she wanted to fuck. He obliged. -- source link
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