The Passionate Kiss

    It was the passionate kiss. 

 That is what has stayed with me. He came up to me, said very little, his hand reached for my arm. I looked to him. He was in no rush. He kept his gaze to the other side of the room. Slowly, he turned his head, but not his eyes, until the last moment when they followed and locked with mine. It was an unblinking stare that held no promises, no commitments, just a simple offer. He offered me a few moments of attention, adoration, and contact in a simple context. His hand moved to my back. I moved mine to his shoulder. He turned his gaze back to his friends. He did not break the connection he had just established. I leaned into him. His hand was searching. He knew he had time. He stroked my spine with a gentle pressure. He moved his hand under my shirt. He went to my belt. His fingers teased the top of my jeans. He slipped them under. I reacted. I can never not react to the touch of a strong man's hand on the skin of the small of my back. My knees usually buckle. They failed me this time as well. Knowing he had found the weakness, he turned, met my expression and then kissed me, softly, without pretense, without concern but with more passion than I had ever felt. My hands would not remain still. I was under his shirt. I worked his nipple gently between finger and thumb and felt his legs bend. In one move I had found his weakness as well. We did no more than this, but this was much more than most were ever capable of giving me. That is what has stayed with me. It was the passionate kiss.