Dear, dear Readers, how I have rejected you over these last few months.
Know that I haven't forgotten you (yes, even you, Kirby:D ).
I could give you a dozen excuses, but those wouldn't really make it better, huh?
I guess the main reason I haven't posted is not because I didn't have things to say, but more that I didn't know that what I had to say was relevant or what you all would want to read or powerful enough to be posted.
That's pretty silly, right?
I mean, I think you have to be at least a little narcissistic to keep a regular blog--you know, believing that other people, potential strangers, give a shit about what you have to say.
So this, my friends, is an effort.
I don't have some great, profound words to share for the evening.
But I will share something I've worked on in the months I've been absent.
It's a fiction piece, and it's very special to me.
I hope you'll tell me what you think.
And I hope that wherever you are, you know that you are beautiful and loved and deserve to laugh and smile every single fucking day.
I'll post again very soon.
Keep a look out. :)
I notice his hands.
The long, slender fingers with their trimmed nails.
Smooth hands that were made to be gentle.
Hands that haven’t known hard work but could be marvels if they met my body.
His eyes hold me like arms should.
Deep set and gray like London.
Long lashes the color of onyx.
When he holds me through them, I’m utterly and completely his though he doesn’t know it.
He’s never sure if he should touch me.
I make the decision for him, touch him first, let him know that it’s okay, that I don’t mind taking the lead.
I slip one finger under each sleeve and trace half moons on his biceps.
He closes his eyes, letting me.
This tiny moment, it says everything we’ve been wanting to say.
It says that I am bold.
It says that he is longing.
It says that we will let this current take us out.
His hands come to rest lightly on my shoulder blades.
And that gesture, my shoulder blades instead of my hips or my breasts or my ass, it is so far from anything that may be a violation.
He nudges me, not enough to move me but enough for me to know he’s ready for me to be closer.
I trail my fingertips up and down his back now as I step closer.
His lips rest on my forehead, just below my hairline.
They are soft and full, and for a moment my fingers stop at the wonder I feel in those lips.
I pull back enough to stare into his gray depths.
Tonight has been so tender, and he is such a broken boy.
And I want to hold him to my chest, one arm around his back, my other hand in his hair.
I settle for my arms resting on his shoulders, my left hand playing lightly with the hair at the nape of his neck.
I smile, just happy to share this moment, this now, this possibility with him.
Something in him releases, and his lips come down to meet mine.
His wraps my bottom lip between his lips, and I move closer, closing the space between our bodies, his hipbones pressing just above my own.
I part my lips.
I can feel him holding back.
This is the tale of us together, letting him know that he can be free with me.
I slide my tongue through to meet his, and he grips me moving one hand to the small of my back, more than nudging now.
We lose ourselves in the magic of meeting this way.
My hands explore the folds of muscle rippling in his skin.
His hands are more respectful.
My lips move to his jaw, square and dusted with shadow.
I kiss a trail to his ear and move down his throat.
I get to the hollow, and his head is rolling back.
“Jade,” he whispers, and I don’t know if it means stop.
I decide it doesn’t and continue the attention of my lips to his collarbone, opening the collar of his button down that I may serve him better.
Those long, slender fingers slid my hair out of its pins and find a home in the curls.
Just as my hands come around to get the next button, he tilts my chin toward his face with his thumb and forefinger.
Once he’s holding my gaze, his hand returns to my curls.
I’m lost in the smolder of his eyes for what seems like an age.
Then he says, “we shouldn’t get carried away,” and I think I hear a tingle of regret in his tone.
“What does carried away even mean?” I challenge.
“Well, for one, it means me stopping before I get to the point where I can’t,” he says.
“And would that be so bad?” I say with a smirk.
“Probably not during,” he says, looking away from me.
I know that he has given so much tonight.
I reply, “that’s okay, lover. I am quite a patient woman.”
His hands leave my hair, their pins lost forever in the grass beneath our feet.
I grab one hand and lace my fingers through it, and we walk to the train.