A/N: I sure can! Here’s 300 words in three minutes. Hope you like ‘em!
Her hands on his, flexing, kneading: oh, such little, little hands had she! Adam plucked at them, wondering. Smooth, strong, lithe, they danced under his fingers and she giggled, drawing away her grasp to rest it along the curve of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he leaned into it—into her. She held him.
For a moment, they sat quiet.
But then she pulled. His cheek came away from his teeth; her fingertips feathered over his lower lip, pushed it gently. As he opened his eyes, he caught her looking curiously into his mouth.
“I wonder,” she said, “can you still roar?”
He blinked and asked, words skewed, “Is ’at f’erry im’ohr’ant d’oo?”
The swelling brightness of her laugh filled the room and all his hollow spaces. His chest expanded—his breath caught. She released him, smoothing the wedge of her palm over his cheek and then down his throat. Her thumb went to the dip of his collar, tucked itself fast. “One more time,” she encouraged him. Belatedly he noticed a dimple in her chin. How long had that been there? “What was that, now?”
Licking his lips, he repeated, “Is that very important to you?” Up her forehead crept the soft stripe of her brow. “If—uh,” he floundered, and clarified, “whether… whether I can still roar.”
“Hmm.” Scooching away a little on the bench, she studied him. In the light that fell through the window, his hair was a golden sheet and the shell of his ear beneath it like a twist of ivory. She reached up, tweaked it. As before he followed her touch, pressing his face up under her wrist; his smile was sheepish and shy but hopeful too, always so.
He kissed the skin there. Her heart fluttered.
“Well,” said Belle, smiling back, “no.”