The whole damn world making sense for once is a matchless bliss.

If her name wasn't Verity, Bliss would be a good one. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Be as sweet as she is. His palms are no longer a highway of nerves, prints and callouses. Now it's a work of art with an intimate walk through by the artist. Or perhaps photographer, she did not make the shore as it is or the cliffs but capture it in a moment for him. It is just as beautiful. Now and then her whispers get a kiss or a murmur of approval.

Cotton rasps over his skin. It also gives him a chance to stretch. Matt tries not to smirk too much as he hears her heart rate kick up. One arm across the other and then both shaking out. The sand dropping away sounds like a small rain of pebbles as the fabric moves off of Verity. The wind and heat of the sun touch her body and it's very much like she's wearing nothing at all. Oh yes. She's being admired. Intensely.

"I should have known. You're always practical."