That word

It causes more problems than it solves, that word.

Sends senses off on a wayward wind, tumbling free. Followed closely by my emotions. No rhyme, no reason. An end to rational thought, contemplation, considered and rational belief.

Thought I’d been in love before. Clearly not. Just goes to show, you can never be too old to fall, and fall hard.

No one has ever had such a profound effect on me before. I am at a loss to adequately describe it, if I’m honest — which as a wordsmith both by trade and in my soul, does not sit well.


Believe me, he says, incredulously. If i didn’t want you around, you would know.

It’s not enough, I retort. I need to hear it. I am not capable of functioning until I hear it from you.

You really don’t know? he quizzes, arching an eyebrow and fixing me with a look. Clearly this is a big surprise to him.

I pause, wondering how best to illustrate the tsunami of raw emotion that has crippled me to my core of late. While he was not the sole cause – I am not quite as pathetic as this post is making me sound – he did, however, generate the biggest fallout. Emotional concussion, if you like. Why? Fuck knows. It just is what it is.

Deep breath: inhale.

Babe, I cried. I fucking wept. On your brother’s shoulder. Like a babe in arms. I had convinced myself and no rhyme or reason could convince me otherwise.

He smiles, engulfs me in the massiveness that is his gloriously sexy frame. Brings me in close, kisses me on the forehead, then lifts my chin so our eyes meet.

I’m not scared to say I love you. And I do, be sure of that.

I well up again, but this time with joy.

I know you. I trust you. 

I go to kiss him, he smiles and jokes around, holding me away from him until he finally acquiesces, and I lose myself in him.

It’s just… I thought it was understood. Between us. Mutual. 

I thought you knew. 



Intensity and release

closeness-keeps-the-fire-burningDown the length of my body, my eyes meet his. A lazy, half-curled smile on his lips as he contemplates his next move. A hand slithers beneath me, and tugs me down further towards him, swivelling me until our bodies cross, and gently lifting me by the neck to him.

Way to make me anticipate a kiss, cheri.

He plants feathery kisses all over my body, in a way which reminds me of schoolboy crushes, from before I moved beyond the realms of virginity, from before I knew what else was out there… from when this was the ultimate in what turned my knees to jelly. Surprisingly, with him at least, it still does.

I return the favour by nibbling on his shoulder, and am rewarded with an affectionate growl of arousal. He kisses my mouth again, buries his head in the space between my chin and my breasts, and sighs loud and long.

It’s the most vocal communication we have for a while, save my own sighs, and his cries and grunts, and is the prelude to some of the most incredible and passionate physical intimacy I’ve ever experienced. We’re entwined in various permutations for literally hours, and I peak over and over and over again*, each time wondering whether I have it in me to achieve yet another orgasm. (I do.)

When he — finally — allows himself to climax, I am sat astride him; my skin glows in the dimmed light, my breath shallow and gasping, his no less so. He mutters something inaudible in French, but I catch the words “J’aime” and “ta chatte” and have a good idea of what it was that he said. Gently, I extricate myself and softly tumble down next to him, as he gathers me close. He strokes my skin, and I his.

We exhale… and smile.

* I lost count at eleven. Swear to dog.