There’s something about those eyes.
The faintest, lightest blue.
Like a lake in wintertime.
She stands before him completely naked. Lit by the soft purple glow of her bedside lamp. Thin black choker around her neck.
Arms laced before her tum.
Her chest rising and falling with every slow and steady breath.
And her eyes . . . wide and bewitching and alluring. Peaceful.
No, it never goes away. That feeling that he’s looking at her completely naked for the very first time.
That stomach flip.
That jolt of electricity sizzling over his body.
That tremble one his breath.
Blood pounding in his ears.
She chose him.
Considered him worthy of her submission. Her mind. Her body. Her sass regulated full force to him in their private realm.
All that she is.
He has reflected upon that for years.
Writing and rewriting and editing and trying to perfect the meaning, the feeling, the scale of what that means to him, what she means to him, her submissive to his dominant.
His self to her self.
Treading darkness with their light.
Naked under the stars.
Raw and wild.
A tempest raging all consuming and then the storm gives way to the morning light and their kisses are as sweet and soft as the morning dew that beads along their bare bodies.