Why do I love him? Why do I want him? Why does the mere thought of him make me smile? Why can I not lie besides him without wanting to run my hand over the velvet of his skin, without breathing in a little deeper simply to savour his scent? I am not sure. I sit across from him and wonder.
He looks up at me and I fall into those blue eyes. When have they become so much deeper? For they have. When we met he had that strange habit of squinting slightly making them appear small. His eyes are not small. It took me months to realise he had stopped doing so when we were together, years until I noticed he had stopped doing it altogether. But it is not his eyes which make me love him, made me want him. All my lovers have had blue eyes and still I left them.
His body is hard and lean, the body of a swimmer, narrow hips and broad shoulders - the body of a man. It was not that way when we started to go out, not when I chose to stay with him, not when I fell in love with him. It was a younger body, a more boyish one, all lose bones and spare frame and even though we are of an age I was older by decades, in body and soul, when we met. I had never been attracted to a boy and still there was no one else from that first moment on.
So why? What was it? If not his eyes, not his body - and, sad to say, not his first few words, which were shy and very correct - as he is. What was it? It was his touch, that first time he took my hand into his, his elegant, long fingers spanning my wrist as he adjusted my bracelet for me. I remember that day, the feeling of the grass under us, the sun on our backs as we lay before the fencing salle waiting for the others. I can see it, feel it, now, here, lying beside him.
I want to feel him. And I can. I reach for him, run my fingers over his hand, the same hand which touched me that first day. It makes him smile, makes those beautiful lips of his stretch in an intimate smile. Does he pull me in? Do I lean towards him? I do not know but our lips touch, his familiar taste invading my consciousness, my core. It is never quite gone from my body, his taste, only pales over the hours we are separate.
He looks up at me and I fall into those blue eyes. When have they become so much deeper? For they have. When we met he had that strange habit of squinting slightly making them appear small. His eyes are not small. It took me months to realise he had stopped doing so when we were together, years until I noticed he had stopped doing it altogether. But it is not his eyes which make me love him, made me want him. All my lovers have had blue eyes and still I left them.
His body is hard and lean, the body of a swimmer, narrow hips and broad shoulders - the body of a man. It was not that way when we started to go out, not when I chose to stay with him, not when I fell in love with him. It was a younger body, a more boyish one, all lose bones and spare frame and even though we are of an age I was older by decades, in body and soul, when we met. I had never been attracted to a boy and still there was no one else from that first moment on.
So why? What was it? If not his eyes, not his body - and, sad to say, not his first few words, which were shy and very correct - as he is. What was it? It was his touch, that first time he took my hand into his, his elegant, long fingers spanning my wrist as he adjusted my bracelet for me. I remember that day, the feeling of the grass under us, the sun on our backs as we lay before the fencing salle waiting for the others. I can see it, feel it, now, here, lying beside him.
I want to feel him. And I can. I reach for him, run my fingers over his hand, the same hand which touched me that first day. It makes him smile, makes those beautiful lips of his stretch in an intimate smile. Does he pull me in? Do I lean towards him? I do not know but our lips touch, his familiar taste invading my consciousness, my core. It is never quite gone from my body, his taste, only pales over the hours we are separate.
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But when we touch, when we kiss, it blooms to something more real, an independent presence, a brand on my very being. His lips move under mine in a way so familiar and still so exciting. I know where this leads, and am more than willing.
His touch is still the same, still full of the quiet confidence - but now it holds something deeper, something more devastating to my composure. It holds knowledge, the intimate knowledge of a man who has spent over a decade with a woman and knows exactly how to fan the sensual flames of erotic play. But today I want to play, today I want to pay homage to that first day. Does he feel the same when I touch him, when I taste his skin?
My lips leave his to play with the rest of him. I love the sensation of his abrasive stubble against my skin and cannot help stroking my cheek over his, testing it, playing with the sensation. He moves his head, offers more of the shadow of a beard for my playing. It makes me smile. He knows me well. I allow myself the luxury to bury my nose in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. That scent has come to mean the world to me, represents all the safety in my life. But I am here to play.
I taste my way along his body with licks and bites, nips and open-mouthed kisses. I also know how to touch him now and long before my mouth finds its desired target, he writhes on the sheets. He is at my mercy, in my power - as I am in his. It’s not because I love the sex or even because the sex is better than anything before. It is not because we look good together or because he is the most beautiful man I have ever met. And he is that, the most beautiful man. Every day, every minute he becomes more beautiful, more alluring.
So, what was it that drew me to him, that still draws me and has held me to him ever since? What makes him the most beautiful man? It is his touch on my skin, that knowing touch, that intimate familiarity. Because he always touches me, always sees me, always did - from that first time. He sees me not what he wants me to be, what he expects me to be. Only with him do I never have to be anyone else. Only with you.
His touch is still the same, still full of the quiet confidence - but now it holds something deeper, something more devastating to my composure. It holds knowledge, the intimate knowledge of a man who has spent over a decade with a woman and knows exactly how to fan the sensual flames of erotic play. But today I want to play, today I want to pay homage to that first day. Does he feel the same when I touch him, when I taste his skin?
My lips leave his to play with the rest of him. I love the sensation of his abrasive stubble against my skin and cannot help stroking my cheek over his, testing it, playing with the sensation. He moves his head, offers more of the shadow of a beard for my playing. It makes me smile. He knows me well. I allow myself the luxury to bury my nose in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. That scent has come to mean the world to me, represents all the safety in my life. But I am here to play.
I taste my way along his body with licks and bites, nips and open-mouthed kisses. I also know how to touch him now and long before my mouth finds its desired target, he writhes on the sheets. He is at my mercy, in my power - as I am in his. It’s not because I love the sex or even because the sex is better than anything before. It is not because we look good together or because he is the most beautiful man I have ever met. And he is that, the most beautiful man. Every day, every minute he becomes more beautiful, more alluring.
So, what was it that drew me to him, that still draws me and has held me to him ever since? What makes him the most beautiful man? It is his touch on my skin, that knowing touch, that intimate familiarity. Because he always touches me, always sees me, always did - from that first time. He sees me not what he wants me to be, what he expects me to be. Only with him do I never have to be anyone else. Only with you.
