If you find me among the pillows I'm urs

You spot a petite figure half-buried in a soft heap of pillows, and the sight stops you completely.

You take in the curve of a bare shoulder, the way the fabric barely covers what it should, the deliberate invitation written across every inch of that small, warm body. You feel the pull of it low in your stomach, something urgent and specific.

You already know you want to cross that distance. You want to move the pillows aside one by one until there's nothing left between your hands and all that soft, waiting skin.