tagRomanceLike a Moth to a Flame

Like a Moth to a Flame


All-consuming passion and soul-shattering vulnerability: this is the only way to describe it. A man who will kiss you for fifteen minutes straight, ceaseless, passionate, over and over, almost suffocating you with intensity -- and then pause, suddenly: pensively, the crease of his brow and narrowing of his eyes just visible in the glimmers of early morning light which seep in through the gaps in the blinds.

He stares into your eyes, out beyond the end of the mattress and into the room; then down to the curve of your neck, down to your shoulder, covered in one of his shirts. You can feel him undressing you with a searing, burning intensity, feel the heat of his gaze and the shiver of his imagination on you, as his eyes move slowly, deliberately, from place to place. Unashamedly looking, wishing; pools of emotion in his eyes that mix confidence and susceptibility, to craft an expression you never even thought was possible -- an expression you certainly couldn't name.

Commanding, he shifts his gaze again, back to your eyes; he rubs his nose with yours, lightly, and bends down to kiss you - once again. This is lust, yes, but to call just it that would be demeaning; this is so much more. This is unbridled passion, and intensity; this is the awareness that there's a bottomless well of deeply-buried emotions simmering under the surface of his gaze, rising further and further to the forefront, about to cascade at any moment into the dusky, stifling air, to radiate the room and bounce off the low ceilings and flood back over you both in a capturing embrace.

Overwhelming. Overpowering. And magnetic, enigmatic -- like a moth to the flame. This is intelligence; every movement, every kiss has a thought behind it, intensity like you've never experienced, an association or a longing for discovery. Gone are the deep conversations of earlier this evening; gone are the laughs until you cry, the smiles, the mocking, the teasing. This is a blistering, solid intensity; this is serious, and real, and powerful, with the ability to furrow somewhere deep inside you, to hook onto a little piece of you and take hold. This is romance, in its purest, most undiluted form. He kisses you again, drawing you in over and over; immersed, totally.

And then, intuitively, again nothing: suddenly withdrawn, mouth an inch from yours, a heavily shaking breath; a gentle, tender kiss to your shoulder, or your cheek -- protectively. Carefully. As if you're something precious; as if he knows that he's consuming you with his passion -- as if he knows that you're losing yourself in him. In the blue depths of his eyes, mixed with intensity and longing and -- deeper -- unrestrained wildness, barely concealed now, are flickers of hurt, of past sadness not quite forgotten. Closer to the surface now, usually in check -- but there, more visible. Raw. His sudden vulnerability draws you in further: you know the same expression is echoed in your eyes, the distant acknowledgement of the last time you felt anything akin to this -- except it wasn't quite this. You glance momentarily at each other, directly -- a transitory recognition of blazing emotion, carefully concealed by both of you beneath the surface, that will stay etched within you, no matter how hard you try to forget it.

And as soon as the burning and unbridled passion was unleashed, it is again restrained -- he bows his head and rests it on your chest, a hand over your heart, covering yours which you find has come to rest there of its own accord; fingers entwining and gripping and almost desperately consuming, despite their defencelessness -- pleading for comfort in a moment of silent confession. Eyes closed, he sighs, and without knowing how or why your fingers instinctively sweep through his hair, trace his ear, run over his deep brow and his neck, his collarbone and his jaw, silently soothing, quietly humming from the passion of a moment ago. You lay like this, entwined, enveloped in each other; intensity so strong that it's almost palpable, almost buzzing in your ears, almost filling the space around you. From commanding and enthusiastic, he retreats suddenly; you switch just as suddenly between helplessness, succumbing to his magnetism, to a strength of your own, and quite naturally.

You shift to let him rest his head on your lap like a child, maternally, soothingly, and you mollify him without words, without knowing why, but instinctively: with gentle fingers through his hair, with soft strokes of his back as he shivers when you trace his spine. You're the one in command, now; and protecting him like this makes you feel strangely - and illogically - protected, with a gentle kiss to his forehead. An urge to protect him, this confident, successful man, like you've never felt before, as he sighs and closes his eyes, melting into your arms; you drift a little, perhaps, until you feel him move his head towards your lips again; slowly, at first, and with a sensuality that shatters you - and then you're drowning again, strong hands tracing your back and your hips with confidence, with intention, with what you know are deliberately restrained touches. You find yourself desperately longing for -- and nervously anticipating -- the time when you'll allow his restraint to eventually break, when the cascade of emotions barely concealed beneath the surface will escape and engulf you, and you'll be drawn into him to such an extent that you know pulling away again would tear you apart: and still, yes, like a moth to a flame you lean in, and coax him for more.


Please note: I'm sorry this wasn't a full story; however, this is an encounter I had the other day with someone I'm seeing, and it was such a beautiful and marked moment in my life that I felt I had to write it up and share it with someone - with you all. I hope you like it.

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