So soft and smooth.
A hand that glides along a shoulder, tracing, mapping, memorizing.
A soft puff of air that brushes along his lips, a silky tongue that tentatively seeks out the heat of his own and yet shyly retreats when given permission.
That touch of sweet innocence, that touch of tender curiosity as their lips meet in their waltz.
Lithe deft fingers travel higher still, caressing the expanse of neck it needs to travel to sift long digits into strands of artificial gold. A moan, ever so quiet, ever so trusting and loving as they continue to share such an intimacy of a lasting kiss. There is no rush as he captures those lips with his own, caressing them, loving them one by one, parting from them to allow the beautiful blond time to catch his breath as he ghosts same pierced pair around the delicate almost doll like mouth to spread those loving pecks around them. He's adoring that particular part of his body, that visage, every delicate feature the blond possesses is worshiped even in an act as innocent as sharing a kiss. One he wants to keep going for as long as possible, because he never wants that heart to feel alone or forgotten or unloved. Because as much as he can give on lust filled nights, what matters most are those moments others don't think about, because he does, because in those moments when all gets quiet his mind likes to try and corrupt his thoughts. When given the chance, the little devil on his shoulder grows loud, comes alive and tells him lie after lie, feeding that tiny speck of insecurity that dwells inside every person, feeding his until he grows afraid, until he loses confidence and wonders if he deserves any love at all. He does. I don't let that voice come alive anymore, not when I let our fingers join in the silence of our home, not when I curl a hand on his chin to bring those big blue eyes into my line of sight, not until I see that hint of a smile on his lips that brings one similar to my own, not when every stroke of our lips along one another because the most artistic thing in this world. It brings us both alive, it deepens our connection far more than just our words. It shows him that he is loved, that he is worthy of that love, and that my love for him will be as eternal as the endless dance of our kiss seems when it drowns away everything else but me and him, him and I.
A hand that glides along a shoulder, tracing, mapping, memorizing.
A soft puff of air that brushes along his lips, a silky tongue that tentatively seeks out the heat of his own and yet shyly retreats when given permission.
That touch of sweet innocence, that touch of tender curiosity as their lips meet in their waltz.
Lithe deft fingers travel higher still, caressing the expanse of neck it needs to travel to sift long digits into strands of artificial gold. A moan, ever so quiet, ever so trusting and loving as they continue to share such an intimacy of a lasting kiss. There is no rush as he captures those lips with his own, caressing them, loving them one by one, parting from them to allow the beautiful blond time to catch his breath as he ghosts same pierced pair around the delicate almost doll like mouth to spread those loving pecks around them. He's adoring that particular part of his body, that visage, every delicate feature the blond possesses is worshiped even in an act as innocent as sharing a kiss. One he wants to keep going for as long as possible, because he never wants that heart to feel alone or forgotten or unloved. Because as much as he can give on lust filled nights, what matters most are those moments others don't think about, because he does, because in those moments when all gets quiet his mind likes to try and corrupt his thoughts. When given the chance, the little devil on his shoulder grows loud, comes alive and tells him lie after lie, feeding that tiny speck of insecurity that dwells inside every person, feeding his until he grows afraid, until he loses confidence and wonders if he deserves any love at all. He does. I don't let that voice come alive anymore, not when I let our fingers join in the silence of our home, not when I curl a hand on his chin to bring those big blue eyes into my line of sight, not until I see that hint of a smile on his lips that brings one similar to my own, not when every stroke of our lips along one another because the most artistic thing in this world. It brings us both alive, it deepens our connection far more than just our words. It shows him that he is loved, that he is worthy of that love, and that my love for him will be as eternal as the endless dance of our kiss seems when it drowns away everything else but me and him, him and I.