His body was the color of cocoa, always warm and deeply toned. Sliding along the endless curves and planes, the landscape of him, I reveled in the gradients of color, shifting from dark to light in a seamless expanse of brown.
His left arm remained darker than his right, elbow pushed into the breeze as he drove with the window or the top down on his little convertible. A few scars marred the smooth river of chocolate skin, white flecks or bands of pink.
He rarely had tan lines although a gentle lightening at his bicep hinted at shirts of varied sleeve-length. His face was even and dark, the color tinted slightly behind the ovals of his glasses as the sun slid through each lens.
His belly, gently round but firm, invited nibbles across his hot skin. From there you could slide up to his hard smooth chest and find his mouth, full lipped and ideally kissed. Or you could move down, to the darkest skin of all, purplish black flesh that shifted in size and shape and color with your attention.
His thighs were strong and extraordinarily wide. To roll him over was to find an amusing change in texture and pattern, white striated lines running across the mottled skin of upper leg and buttocks, a shocking deviation from the unbroken fields of brown.
His palms were pink, the color turning dramatically dark again precisely halfway around his fingers, like a white girl might sunburn by the pool. The wrinkles of his knuckles were black but when stretched reverted to the soothing brown of his hands and wrists and arms. His elbows were like night, and bent around me to hold me as in sleep.
His skin embodied him, and mine enfolded him like soft white gates. He loved my skin for its translucence, I his for its obscurity.
