It Takes A Special Kind of Talent to Write Harlequin

She appeared to be staring calmly out the front room's curtains into the night sky. She was trying to grasp the slightest of breezes from the open window to cool her senses; when he came up behind her. Fog hung dense clinging close to the wet ground.
He was in his bed clothes.
Of course, she would let him stay the night. It was such a long drive home, so late. He had come by with no forewarning.
"What are you looking at," he spoke. He was standing so close behind her she could almost feel the out-line of his body. She wanted to breathe deeper. She could feel the simmering tingle start lightly in her body. She closed her eyes, briefly.
"Nothing," she whispered, for lack of better words to say.
She felt his hand slide up to her left shoulder, fingertips brushing her neck. She tilted her head away from him, feeling his fingers slide from her neck and then back up again as he further reached for her. She let her eyelids drop.
She could hardly stand it.
His hand reached into her hair and she leaned slightly back into him. His hand applied gentle pressure, asking her to turn to him.
And she did.