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Soft. Her hands. Soft and warm - on his face, on his chest, in his dreams, in the umbrella of the moonlight, under the first streams of morning light. Her hands in the pitch black of night, muscles and tendons dancing between each other in a lover's tango. Fingertips like matches grazing his skin with flame, their scars being the measure of their love. He bares with his scars, because he remembered the time when her flame danced on him forever ... he became the moth and they melded together.
Reminiscing the last night Omkara woke up to soft sheets that still smelt of her , and the morning light trickled in through the blinds ... synonymous to her cheerful giggles teasing him. Shedding himself of the remaining glimpses of a dream, his eyes were still shut as he soaked in the warmth of his covers before letting his eyes see the sun's rays.
In the darkness of the early morning their cuddles feel like a little touch of heaven, warm, together, cozy. He wished he could extend the night just so he could stay close to her for longer, safe in her embrace. His arms wrapped right around her bring a peace he has never known before, a calming of the storms in his heart. He thought it is she that gives her hope for the future. In her embrace he started to believe that there is nothing out there to fear, that all there is... is sunshine, beautiful trees and kind people - friends to be. Yes, they will fight, they will have problems and they will have bad days too but he will never let her go away from her ... that he has promised to himself. Her cuddles are the only medicine he needed, they are the light in the darkness, a lone star in an otherwise empty sky.
Her cuddles are the only antidote he has to this world. If she is away from him then she takes away the best part of him with her. Without her he is not him anymore, he is a broken shell of someone who could love her forever. So he let her wrap him in her arms and never let go, keep him safe and warm. In return he will never let go of her, love her, defend her, keep her safe. If in all this cold universe there is only her he can truly love, it is enough. She is the spark to his flame, the one who keeps him burning when logic decries his light should have been extinguished long ago.
She is worth every morning. Holding her in his arms ... knowing that she has given up against his desires ... that she has let him ruin her. In good moods like these a writer may paint words that are fine wine and soft music; words that contain more healing medicine than all the drugs created by man. They are clear water over rocks, a shelter in any storm. They are food for the soul of every flower of the light. So he vowed to only write what is right, inspired by the golden illumination of a sun that never dies ... this was a promise to his beloved. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword, for a pen can weave love; a pen can bring the cleansing rain of hope; a pen can speak words so sublime as to last all the ages of man.
She felt his hot breath on her neck, then the tender brush of lips. Burning as they make contact with her neck. His hand runs through her hair, as the kisses become harder and more urgent. Another hand slides around her waist, and pulls her close to his pine scented body.
All-consuming passion and soul-shattering vulnerability: this is the only way she could describe it. A man who will kiss her for so much time straight, ceaseless, passionate, over and over, almost suffocating her 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 curtains.
He stares into her eyes, out beyond the end of the mattress and into the room; then down to the curve of her neck, to her shoulder, covered in one of his shirts. She can feel him undressing her with a searing, burning intensity, feel the heat of his gaze and the shiver of his imagination of her, 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 she never even thought was possible -- an expression she certainly could not name.
Commanding, he shifts his gaze again, back to her eyes; he rubs his nose with hers, lightly, and bends down to kiss her 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 is 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 both of them in a capturing embrace.
Overwhelming. Overpowering. And magnetic, enigmatic -- like a moth to the flame. This is intelligence; every movement, every kiss from him has a thought behind it, intensity like she has never experienced, an association or a longing for discovery. Gone are the deep conversations of earlier that particular evening; gone are the laughs until she had tears in her eyes, 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 her, to hook onto a little piece of her and take hold. This is romance, in its purest, most undiluted form. He kisses her again, drawing her in over and over; immersed, totally.
And then, intuitively, again nothing: suddenly withdrawn, mouth an inch from hers, a heavily shaking breath; a gentle, tender kiss to her shoulder, and her cheek -- protectively. Carefully. Because she is something precious; as if he knows that he is consuming her with his passion -- as if he knows that she losing herself in him. In the brown 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 her in further: she knew the same expression is echoing in her eyes, the distant acknowledgement of the last time she had felt anything akin to this -- except it was not quite this. They glanced momentarily at each other, directly -- a transitory recognition of a blazing emotion, carefully concealed by both of them beneath the surface, that will stay etched within them, no matter how hard they try to forget it.
And as soon as the burning and unbridled passion is unleashed, it is again restrained -- he bows his head and rests it on her chest, a hand over her heart, covering her which she found has come to rest there of its own accord; fingers entwining and gripping and almost desperately consuming, despite their defenselessness -- pleading for comfort in a moment of silent confession. Eyes closed, he sighed, and without knowing how or why her 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. They lay like this, entwined, enveloped in each other; intensity so strong that it's almost palpable, almost buzzing in her ears, almost filling the space around her. From commanding and enthusiastic, he retreats suddenly; she switched just as suddenly between helplessness, succumbing to his magnetism, to a strength of her own, and quite naturally.
She shifted to let him rest his head in her lap like a child, soothingly, and she mollified him without words, without knowing why, but instinctively: with gentle fingers through his hair, with soft strokes of his back as he shivers when she traced his spine. She is the one in command, now; and protecting him like this makes her feel strangely - and illogically - protected, with a gentle kiss to his forehead. An urge to protect him, this confident, successful man, like she has never felt before, as he sighs and closes his eyes, melting into her arms; she drifted a little, perhaps, until she felt him move his head towards her womanhood again; slowly, at first, and with a sensuality that shattered - and then she is drowning again, strong hands tracing her back and her hips with confidence, with intention, with what she knew are deliberately restrained touches. She found herself desperately longing for -- and nervously anticipating -- the time when she will allow his restraint to eventually break, when the cascade of emotions barely concealed beneath the surface will escape and engulf her, and she will be drawn into him to such an extent that she will know pulling away again would tear her apart: and still, yes, like a moth to a flame she leaned in, and coaxed him for more.
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