The kiss was searing.  She had always forced herself to stay coherent when they kissed, but now she had five glorious minutes to just let go and she did.  She'd become so acclimated to him that she didn't turn into the babbling idiot she had been the first time he'd held his hand against her skin for longer than a brief, accidental brush, but she still floated in a haze of adoration.  She hadn't realized how much energy she put into keeping at least one thread of her mind separate from his touch before.  Now that she let that go it felt much like the release of setting down a heavy box, or slipping out of heels and letting your feet relax into a more natural position.  Without the need to stay sober, she just swayed against him and let her hands slide up his back under his shirt.  He never let her see him undressed.  Even when they spent the night together, which they did now more often than not, he appeared at her door in pajamas that covered almost every inch of his skin.  She let her fingers explore what he kept hidden.  She could feel the line of his ribs as she pressed her hand against him, then a line of scar tissue that cut across his chest. She had enough scars of her own from the war to know what that felt like, and she made a curious sound.