Romantique

Monday Night; Paris

FP and I lay in bed together for the first time in seven weeks. Entangled limbs, bed head hair, breathless and hot, we slowly drink each other in. His fingers stroke my arm softly, his eyes rest on my own, seeing something in there that only he sees. I lay my head on his chest, listen to his heartbeat, pounding against his skin as though it wants to jump right out, ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

His scent lingers in my nostrils, a heavenly mixture of musk and sexy man and I breath deeply, filling my lungs with FP scented air. I never want this moment to end.

It's been so long, and yet here we are, together again, entwined and reunited as one and nothing has changed. He still loves me, I know because I see it in his eyes, I feel it in his touch, I hear it in his voice and I taste it in his kiss. I feel like I'm the happiest girl in the entire universe, and God knows, I'm certainly the luckiest.

I tell him so.

He smiles down at me, his eyelashes casting long shadows on his handsome face in the dim light. I open my mouth to continue with some cheesy 'I love you' lines, when his eyes lower.

I follow his gaze. He's looking at my dimpled thighs, naked, pressed against his own.

"Cellulite," I sigh, in way of explanation.

He nods; understanding. "Peau d'orange," he replies, before kissing my forehead tenderly. Orange-peel skin.

"Je t'aime, ma petite princesse."

Now who says romance is dead?