I loved his collarbones more than anything else in the world. You could see them peeping through his shirt when the top two buttons, and not a single extra one, was kept open. Not jutting like famine victims', they were however, solidly prominent. They revealed more than what they hid and I could easily picture his incredibly chiselled rib-cage. Reminded me of Jesus Christ, they always did. Not an ounce of extra flesh clothed those exquisite bones that seemed crafted out of rock. Rocks that bore diamonds.
The softness of my femininity yearned to be framed squished and destroyed in the rawness of that hard primal primitive and timeless stolidity.
And when sweat glistened on the surface of that bronzed chest - the chest that hid his pulsating throb - yes, I was crushed. And ruined for life.
His collarbones ruined me.
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