Corin’s skin tasted both salty and sweet, and the music of his cries was more beautiful even than the song of the nightingale that flitted around the cottage calling for his mate. The heavy aroma of wood smoke lingered in the air, but far more intoxicating was the scent of Corin’s body, its earthy musk mingling with the fragrance of the pine trees among which he lived and worked.
Reuben yearned to know every inch of his lover, to claim him with a fierceness that was its own surrender. And Corin gave eagerly of himself, his skin soft, his limbs pliant, and his body opening like the flowers in springtime to Reuben’s wondering touch. As Reuben slid inside his lover, he knew his heart had been stolen from him never to return. But he rejoiced, for Corin had given his own heart in exchange. No words were shared as they moved together, bodies slick with their mingled sweat, for what words could compare to the tale told by hands and limbs and hearts?