<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 10pt;">►Chantal◄</span><br/>► Company:  Triste<br/><br/><div class="floatright">(http://i1177.photobucket.com/albums/x359/Briar_Rose_Thorne/Chantal_zps0a3ae8a7.jpg)</div><br/>There were two kinds of truths, or so Chantal had come to believe.  The first were truths that drew people -- or individuals -- together, forming a bond that might be long lasting or so tenuously fragile that it would crumble at the first test.  These truths were particularly conducive to sexual experiences that kindled in the mind and burned there brightly as the fire spread by touch and kiss, thrust and pull.  The second kind were truths that cut like a blade, baring the soul and stripping away the insulating protection of convention and society.  For those with wisdom, those brutal truths were the anathema to physical pleasure and passion, so Chantal did not offer her perspective on life and its length or worth.<br/><br/>Instead, she took his words as she had his gift, as compliments to add color and luster to the work of art they were engaged in creating.<em>"You honor me truly with your words, Lord Richleau, and more with your regard.  Let us zhink upon the beauty of zhis moment together and let zhat fire burn away, if only for a time, all zhe unpleasantness that has come before."</em><br/><br/>Her fingers remained where he had placed them, even as Triste drew her into the kiss.  Her fingertips roved softly over the scar tissue as if with them she could brush away the memories or the pain that had come in the marring, or else to chisel it into her memory, this one imperfection in the work of sculpture that he had made of his body.  It was a reminder that however they might differ, they both were capable of experiencing both the heights of pleasure and the depths of pain, and both extremes left their mark whether they could be seen or not.<br/><br/>Chantal made no effort to deepen the kiss or hurry the exploration of mouths and bodies, though she willingly parted her lips to meet and caress his, and let his hands mold their forms together as he wished.  His hands followed her curves with all the knowledge and appreciation of an artist's, as warm and intimate as the caress of the sun thorough the window panes, making her long for more and for the freedom to similarly explore his body, all the more fascinating for the markings and additions that had turned his natural primal beauty into something even darker.<br/><br/>In that moment, she deeply regretted the cloth that separated them still, but not the anticipation of stripping it away.  Though a frame or well-chosen surroundings could enhance almost any work of visual beauty, in this case she could think of none more suitable than his dusky, silk over marble skin against the softness of sheets.