It is best we were seated apart, she thought in relief; no more uncomfortable moments until the carriage ride home. She took glancing looks at him. He cuts a fine figure indeed, and seems a natural in his dinner suit; though, come to think of it, this might very well be his first time to be formally attired. Overcome by a desire to trace his features her index finger moved under the tablecloth, tracing and retracing his face on her thigh: His highbrows, eyes, aquiline nose, full lips, jawline. Her finger kept moving, tracing the intangible lines, shadowing the skin where it fell away from the light, enhancing the cheekbones, adding detail: The cup of his ear, nostrils, thick eyelashes, the hint of hair on his closely shaved head, the white glimpse of teeth; the sketch on her thigh grew bolder, darker, warmer, more corporeal. The thigh on which she drew turned sensitive by the repeated movement; the skin tingled with longing. Finally, the imaginary sketch was completed; her desire was satiated.
[This is a segment from my novel, “From the Desert"]