Last night at eight I was sitting with Peter on his divan and it wasn't long before he put an arm around me.
(Since it was Saturday, he wasn't wearing his overalls.)
“Why don't we move over a little,” I said, “so I won't keep bumping my head against the cupboard.”
He moved so far over he was practically in the corner.
I slipped my arm under his and across his back, and he put his arm around my shoulder, so that I was nearly engulfed by him.
We've sat like this on other occasions, but never so close as we were last night.
He held me firmly against him, my left side against his chest;
my heart had already begun to beat faster, but there was more to come.
He wasn't satisfied until my head lay on his shoulder, with his on top of mine.
I sat up again after about five minutes, but before long he took my head in his hands and put it back next to his.
Oh, it was so wonderful. I could hardly talk, my pleasure was too intense;
he caressed my cheek and arm, a bit clumsily, and played with my hair.
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