It has been a happy, delirious week. From the first night of laughter, comradeship and shared tales of life, to the slow build up of tension and the shy tentative advances that later burst into wild heat, it has been a merry go round of emotions.
Relief at finding one so attuned to another's thoughts, followed by fear of the parting to come, a pulling back from intimacy to protect one's psyche.
And always, always, the inevitable drawing of souls together.
In the end, amid tangled legs and arms, with moans and pants giving way to whispered endearments, we set fear aside. It will always be part of our lives. We will acknowledge it without letting it rule our dreams.
It is the end of my second week with you.
I, who have spent decades flitting in and out of the family home like some breezy hotel guest, am settling down into domesticity.
Waking up for breakfast, calling you for my whereabouts, drawn to you at odd moments of the day when I need to reassure myself that reality hasn't taken flight.
Getting lost in alleys, secure in knowing you are just a phone call away.
Giddy at dusk, dancing to your side as you walk of out from work.
I have even learned to care about the state of your collar, me who'd rarely bothered with my clothes.
I call to check if you've eaten, I who used to sprint through the days forgetting my own meals in the chaos of work.
I am bemused by this serene soul who now waits at home.
I hear footsteps and gather my papers and paints and books. It is time for you who continue of amaze me with your constant gentle attention to my needs, even when I don't think of them.
A brief talk on the phone had revealed some stress at work. This time I can give as much as I have received.
You walk in, valiantly trying to transform a scowl into a smile. Your shoulders are hunched. There is tic in your cheek.
I greet you with a hug, stroking your back, and lead you to the battered leather couch so I can better reach your head. I give you soft kisses, warmth replacing passion's heat. The silence is my way of telling you it is okay to be tired and grouchy.
You close your eyes and allow yourself to be nurtured, and smile when a mug of coffee is placed near your hands.
In between sips, you allow your forehead to be caressed by my fingers, sigh as my hands reach for your tense shoulders.
You have brought food but dinner can wait. It is time to give back the peace you have given me.
I lead you to the bedroom, ours after the third night of my visit.
I open your shirt and take these and your pants and socks to the hamper. You raise a brow at my smile. Often, we rip clothes off each other's backs, or fumble at them to get at each other's flesh.
Tonight is a different kind of loving, as precious as those nights that fill our home with flames.
I give you a kiss and tell you to relax to some music while your huge tub fills.
A little scent, a little oil, then we are both in the warm water. My tan skin and black hair set off your blonde locks. I am petite and just a third of the width of your shoulders.
I take a washcloth and slowly run it through your back, your chest, your arms and legs and thighs. A slow gentle rubbing, sensual, not meant to fan the flames. Not yet.
You sigh and give me little kisses as I encircle your body with soap, as I reach under for balls and shaft, soft and tender now, and the skin between your nether cheeks.
From time to time, you reach for my breasts but it is a languid touch, a wondering touch.
You lean back to watch me run the cloth through my body and then hold out your hand.
"I want to clean the part I love most."
I surrender the cloth and open my thighs. I am dazzled by your smile.
You reach out. I tense slightly; I cannot help reacting to your touch. You know the control I am exerting and your mouth tilts up as your fingers play gently with me.
