Her father once told her that when she blushed (something that happened awfully often when she was a kid), it was like she had been eating roses. Never had the comparison been more appropriate than right now that she happened to be wearing a flower in her hair, and her cheeks had been incensed by the touch of his lips.
And yet, with everything, she finds herself at a loss for words. Wanting to say much, the words seemed to have stopped before even considering reaching her mouth, as her breast (compressed against that new corset she had made herself) seemed to go slowly up and down following her breath and her much quicker heartbeat.
Irma has never felt like this. Never has actually considered the fact that she could be admired in earnest by a man (all what was before was flirts and nothing beyond that. But Grantaire is different.), and she admired him back.
Because despite everything (she can already hear her mother and Helène saying out loud: "He is ugly!" "He doesn't deserve you!" she doesn't care), she finds herself admiring every single thing about this man. His features seem more handsome each moment that passes; his manners, that of a prince; his exaggerations, words of a poet. She loves him even though she barely knows him.
There's adoration, true and without any secret, in her eyes. And if she sees that less than reassuring part of his, she doesn't show it.
Still, she can't help but break eye contact and look down for a moment, suddenly aware of her red, hot cheeks, and sure he'll think of her as a silly little girl.
no subject
And yet, with everything, she finds herself at a loss for words. Wanting to say much, the words seemed to have stopped before even considering reaching her mouth, as her breast (compressed against that new corset she had made herself) seemed to go slowly up and down following her breath and her much quicker heartbeat.
Irma has never felt like this. Never has actually considered the fact that she could be admired in earnest by a man (all what was before was flirts and nothing beyond that. But Grantaire is different.), and she admired him back.
Because despite everything (she can already hear her mother and Helène saying out loud: "He is ugly!" "He doesn't deserve you!" she doesn't care), she finds herself admiring every single thing about this man. His features seem more handsome each moment that passes; his manners, that of a prince; his exaggerations, words of a poet. She loves him even though she barely knows him.
There's adoration, true and without any secret, in her eyes. And if she sees that less than reassuring part of his, she doesn't show it.
Still, she can't help but break eye contact and look down for a moment, suddenly aware of her red, hot cheeks, and sure he'll think of her as a silly little girl.
"I am afraid I might be too human, though"