By the time she arrived, her husband was dead: his skin still warm, but cooling.

She turned to face him once more, her skin warm and blushing.

She could feel his breath on her skin, warm and fragrant.

He got up, soaked to the skin but warm and happy.

He slid the finger down her warm, dry skin and she did not move.

Tried to struggle, but was held fast against a chest more cold metal than warm skin.

He felt her tears on his skin, warm and secret.

He looked at her warm pink skin, so clean and pure.

I stopped my hand on the warm skin just below her armpit.

You know, as I do, the touch of his skin - so warm, is he not?