Just for a second.
Because she’s standing there in front of me, bare and breathtaking.
And I can’t move.
Can’t speak.
I watch her reflection in the mirror before us.
The shape of her breasts, the pink of her nipples, the soft curls beneath her delicate lacy underwear—she’s all gentle curves and quiet strength. I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest by how much I need her.
Not just her body, her.
All of her.
I close the space behind her and rest my hands on the dip of her waist.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper into her ear.
She smiles shyly, and then turns to face me, her hands moving to the waistband of her underwear. But, just as she’s about to slip them down, I place my hands over hers to stop her.
She looks at me, questioning.
“Let me,” I request softly. “Please.”
She releases her grip, and I take hold of the soft band.
Crouching down in front of her, eyes level with her hips, I slowly slide the fabric down.
Over her thick thighs, her knees, her delicate ankles.
I help her step out of them, and then I begin to kiss my way upwards.
From the arch of her foot, up her legs, and onto her thighs.
My hands caressing her soft skin as I go, steady and tender.
I leave a final kiss on the soft curls between her legs in quiet worship. And, then she takes my face in her hands, guiding me up until I’m standing before her again.
I lean forwards, placing kisses on her neck and her throat as her hands thread through my hair. Mine are at her waist, and we move together like we’ve done this a thousand times in our dreams.
We step clumsily into the shower together, until the warm water cascades over us, washing away the lake and the firelight. Her skin is slick and glowing, and I can’t stop touching her.
She kisses me again slowly, and I know, this isn’t just passion.
It’s trust.
Her hands find my belt and work to undo the buckle. I take her face in my hands, searching her eyes through the soft haze of steam rising around us like mist.
I need to be sure, need to see this is what she wants.
She smiles, steady and sure, her gaze never leaving mine.
And she keeps going.
Her fingers slide my zipper, tugging it down achingly slowly.
There’s no rush in her touch, just intention.
