So she smiled at him, in what she hoped was a loving way, because truly she did adore him, but she never really felt in control of her muscles--and thus, her expressions--around him. She'd grown rather accustomed to that weak sort of feeling, starting in her knees and moving upwards in a slow arc--warm and energized, but weak and frightened. Six months, six years, sixty years would never see that feeling falter. And like honey in her stomach, the other feeling, a combination of love and desire, all the more intense despite, or perhaps because of, the familiarity. Unaware of her own movements, she stepped toward him, raising her hands blindly, reaching out for him.
Sitting across the room, tension slowly ate her alive, but now she could feel his closeness, and she quickened her pace. He raised his arms, and she, overjoyed, poured herself into them, completed in this one movement. But then he tiled his head downward, and she was distracted from the previous pose. She stared at his soft, supple lips, hungrily, imagining the things those lips could do, had done, would do. The lips that would kiss hers at least two dozen times a day, the lips that had never stopped kissing her since the day she returned to his arms at last. A year of seperation did nothing but magnify the love she held for him, and here, this perfect being, this amazing mind, this beautiful body, those sensual lips, these things were her reward. She shifted her gaze ever so slightly, and with a shiver of delight looked into a pair of azure eyes, kind and truer than the sea. Like light glinting off water, there were shots of sky through the deeper blue. She always loved the way his eyes glinted darker when he looked at her, as they did now, and even the fierce icy blue they became when he was protecting her. And she felt so very protected when he was by her side. So very safe, even when things looked hopeless, because she had his faith and strength always with her.
He leaned forward, and with a brush of his lips painted candy fire along her mouth, and the feeling of completion burned deeper within her. Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around his neck, snaking her fingers into the glittering strands of his sandlewood hair and twirling it idly. And then the ground shook where she stood, the horizon leaned crazily, her knees had buckled in the onslaught of emotion. But he caught her.
Would it always be this way, even in the mundane and balanced times? Would the tragedy of distance for an eternal brevity be enough to fuel the passion beyond those first few months? Or would more drama, more pain, more broken glass and broken hearts be required? Even now he was hurting. Even now she could not find the words to help him. She knew with the most terrible certainty that there was someone would could find the words and more... but for now, all she wanted was hands and eyes and a voice of ocean depths. For now, she was content in her fantasy, and she liften her chin as he took to her throat and whispered into her neck.
It is fragile, she thought. As I am fragile. He will kiss porcelain and I will caress spun sugar, and in the end, we will break as one, and bleed as one.
And that is as it should be.
This is something I wrote as a present for my boyfriend. But I left out the last two paragraphs on his version. I'm still really worried about this relationship... and it's eating me alive. But I thought I'd post this here to try to stimulate a little movement. *stab* MOVE, DEMMIT!
*smile* Hope everyone had a great holiday. Let me know what you think, and start posting--seriously!!