Painting the Rose Red

Rated: T

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Sometimes it felt wrong to touch her like this. In such an intimate way.

He loved her and he knew she loved him but he often felt unworthy of this love. He couldn’t give to her everything she wanted and everything she deserved. He was reaching the point where he wanted to relax in bed more than he wanted to screw around in it, and she had just arrived at the point where her itch for him was stronger than ever.

He still found her to be beautiful and sexy but it affected him differently than it used to. It was what her character offered to him now that continued to increase in priority compared to what her body offered.

He was still thirsty for her. He still felt a lust for her. But he was thirsty for her company, lustful for the comfort she provided him. A night spent lying next to her with her hands running slowly through hair as she called him “darling” and “my love,” murmuring tender words to settle his racing mind: it held more power over him than the shape of her lips or the soft curves of her breasts or the rose between her thighs. There were nights he still desired to make love with her and on those nights he would. He gave her every opportunity he could.

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