[MF] A study of the phenomenon known as the “slow smolder”

I know. I don’t even have to look.
I’ve never seen you in person
but I can tell by the sound of your heels on the marble floor as they click across the lobby.

Your presence has a gravitional pull.

My tides are surging,
engaging every molecule of me
before I even turn around.

I’m afraid to look into the sun.

I’m afraid to look at you — but I do.

A smile illuminates my face before I even know I’m smiling.

I look inward, amazed at the emotions that suddenly saturate me.

You sit across the room at a table.
Pretending this is just another day. Just another drink.
But you cannot maintain that theatre for long.
Soon you look at me with your sweetest honesty
and I know I need to be securely in your space.

I get up to walk towards you.
I’m tempted to stop and flirt with the barfly at the end of the encounter
but this isn’t the moment for teasing.

I sit down and think about saying something.

But then I look up
and your eyes are on me.

I see galaxies in them.

If I keep looking
everything else will disappear.

Even after countless conversations,
that gradual unwrapping,
secrets I have told no one,
those stunning pictures,
even then
I am nervous.

We start slow,
eye contact happens fleetingly.

But I don’t mind.
I am savoring the moment like I’ve just walked into a warm bakery
on a cold morning.

I’m in no hurry.

In the awkward, blushing lull there is opportunity
to devour the view of your neck.

There is opportunity
​to notice the flickering of the muscles in your legs,

​the underside of your wrist,

​the sides of your feet in those amazing shoes,

​the way your dress caresses your breasts,

​that place behind your knees—

​am I going to fall off this bar stool?

My brain is now that ringing, glittering place where two lightning bolts meet in the cracking night sky.

Nothing is working.

I’ve abandoned my plans for my sexiest look and the half-smile that enhances the lines around my eyes. Everything rehearsed has eroded. Back-up plans are thrown out.

Every particle of me is on high alert.

Glorious, wild chaos will rule the day.

I have no control.

I brace myself.

I look at your face.

That sparkling mischief.
That exquisite mystery lurking behind your eyes.
Your words fall like poetry out of the sky.

I remember none of them.

And then I see it.

Some soft switch of freedom and desire has been flipped in you,
like the strap dropping off your shoulder.

Your eyes widen.

And I know I will meet
the gorgeous animal within you.

I am speechless. thoughtless. Something has already poured out of myself into you.

I consider tossing my credit card at the bartender, picking you up and carrying you across the lobby to the elevator.

But I won’t.

Not today.

I am hushed and reverent-
all I can think about
is that first inhalation of your scent
and the feel of your fingers in my hair.
Those whispers, gazes matched,
are the real undressing.
No cliched or borrowed games,
but two people
who deeply resonate
and deeply affirm.
Knowing that the passion to come
is the same passion
that already smolders.

Gentleness is the starting point.
Enough soft words to bridge the intimacy we have
with the intimacy to come.

The soft light of candles
before the inferno erupts.

I stand up
and hold out my hand.

You take it

and
now I have touched you.

As you stand

you graze your fingers softly

across my forearm.

I shiver.

We embrace
and I know
that I never want it to end.

Yet it has just begun.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/jqw5zy/mf_a_study_of_the_phenomenon_known_as_the_slow