He made her look up.  Chantel had avoided doing so for as long as she could.  She was more afraid of what he would see than what she would.  Her eyes were the color of fresh soil, framed by lashes that brushed the fullness of her cheeks when they closed.  She was proud of them, but would never have indicated to a soul that it was so,  until this man put two fingers on her chin and lifted her face to his own.  

There was a liquid movement in his hazel windows of color.  Flecks of gold seemed to capture every tiny dream and mirror it back to her in a millisecond.  The corners of his eyes told the tale of many laughs and half as many tears.  She was captivated, held bound without bonds.  Neither of them spoke. 

 She could feel his breath against her skin.  She allowed herself that indulgence.  Drinking deeply of it as if the act could fill her completely, she was lost in the moment.  Just as she believed she could hold no more of him, she felt his lips glance against her own.  Could there be more warmth in a spark of blue fire?  She doubted it  It sent fingers of heat through every vein and her heart responded loudly. . .