It is so cold this winter. So cold, and I am so lonely. Surrounded by my family, I am lonelier still, for they all have Someone, and I do not. I come home to a quiet house. It is mine, and for that I am thankful, yet it would be lovely to share it with my own Someone. I imagine him all the time. I know just what he looks like and the sound of his voice. I know the touch of his hand and the smell of his skin. And in moments like this, I retreat inside my mind, and drive away the dark loneliness with imaginings of a summer evening spent with my love.
It is July. The night is warm and fragrant, the sky clear and bright with stars. I lie in the grass staring up at them, finding the few constellations I know and imagining I see others. There is movement beside me, and I look over to see my love come to join me in repose. He stretches out his long form close enough to speak low, but not close enough to touch. Until he reaches for my hand and curls his fingers around mine. We lie together, counting stars and savoring the sounds of the night. The chirrups and whirrs of crickets and night animals fill the air with music and we have no need for speech. It is enough simply to be together. Until… Until it is not enough.
We have gradually closed the gap between us with movement, and I can feel the warmth of his body. The teasing brush of his arm against my side as we adjust our hand-clasp. And the air is filled now with more than just night-song. There is desire now, and it surrounds us, blanketing us in a warmth of its own. We turn toward each other, secret smiles on each pair of lips, as we consider what to do about our desire. Knowing what will be done, and relishing the anticipation.
He leans toward me ever so slowly, lips hovering over mine. I feel his breath tease my skin. My love looks into my eyes, daring me. Whether daring me to maintain the scant distance or daring me to close it, I don’t know. I hold myself still. Daring him in return to woo me. I’ll not give an inch. He must win me – though we both know he will, in the end.
He begins the seduction, turning his breath to other places, to the sensitive hollow behind my ear, trailing down my offered neck. His upper hand trails across my arm – I can feel the heat of him, he is so close, and yet he doesn’t touch me. My love caresses the space between the world and me – my energy, some would call it. His almost-touch is nevertheless erotic, and I know he does it deliberately. He wants me to beg, whether with words or a whimper for his hands and lips on my body. I hold myself silent, exulting in this sensation. The prolonged anticipation only builds the desire between us. The heat is palpable – both of us wanting yet waiting. Time has stopped for us – there is no sense that we must hurry, we have an eternity to explore each other. I am content to let him almost-touch me, to stoke the fire so that when we finally come together we might set our world ablaze.
And then it happens – his lips touch me, grazing over my shoulder, so unexpectedly that I shiver in response. I feel my breasts tighten beneath my clothing, butterflies burst into flight in my belly, and I gasp at the sensations. My love has taken me by surprise. He knows it – had planned it – and I feel him smile against my flesh. I smile in return and turn my head to kiss him on the cheek. He is a most devious man, and I am eager for every kiss and touch and surprise he has planned for me.