Page 25 of The Words of Us

I set the books within reach, flipping one open to a page I love, the words dancing in my mind as I imagine reading them to Sasha. The poems are a mix—some playful and light, teasing in their rhythms; others more tender, touching on the quiet moments that make you feel seen. I hope they’ll be enough to bridge the gap between us, to turn this night into something that isn’t just about attraction, but connection.

As I step back to look at what I’ve created, I feel a flutter of nerves. It’s simple, nothing extravagant—just wine, blankets, and poetry. But it’s ours, and that makes it feel meaningful.I catch a glimpse of her, still near the shelves, and I call softly, “Hey, come here.”.

Sasha turns, her eyes meeting mine, and there’s something in her expression—curiosity, maybe, or something softer, morevulnerable—that makes my pulse quicken. She walks over, her movements unhurried, and as she gets closer, I feel the space between us shrink to nothing.

I gesture to the setup, trying to keep my smile casual, though my heart is hammering in my chest. “I thought maybe we could stay a little longer. Just us.”

Sasha’s gaze shifts to the blanket, the glasses of wine, and the stack of poetry books resting within easy reach. Her smile is warm, and it lights something inside me. She doesn’t say anything at first, just taking it all in, and when she finally looks back at me, there’s a quiet understanding in her eyes that makes me feel seen in a way I don’t expect.

“This is perfect,” she says, her voice soft and genuine, and it’s all the reassurance I need.

I hand her one of the glasses, our fingers brushing against each other’s, and we sit down together on the blanket, the night settling around us like a secret. The candles flicker as we sip our wine, and I feel the last of my nerves melt away.

We don’t need to rush. The poems are there, waiting for when we are ready, but for now, it’s enough just to be here and share this space. The attraction between us is still there, humming beneath the surface, but so is something deeper, something that feels like the start of a story I’m not sure how to tell just yet.

But I want to try.

We curl up on the blanket, our shoulders touching as we settle into the small, cozy space. The room feels like it’s just ours now—quiet and intimate. Sasha’s presence next to me is grounding yet electric, and the simple act of being close to her feels like something I want to savor.

I reach for the stack of poetry books, my fingers grazing over the covers until I find the one I’d marked earlier. It is an old collection—well-loved, the pages worn and softened over time. Iflip it open to the poem I’ve been thinking about all night, the one that feels right for this moment, with its sensual, lingering lines that speak of touch and connection.

“This one’s always been a favorite of mine,” I say, my voice hushed, the words barely above a whisper.

Sasha looks at me, her eyes dark and curious, and I feel my heart stutter at the way she watches me. I clear my throat, settling the book in my lap, and begin to read, my voice slow and deliberate, each word hanging in the air between us.

We linger in shadows, close and near,

With whispered secrets, soft and clear.

Your breath on my skin, a gentle trace,

The slow, sweet burn of this hidden place.

We speak in touches, fingers glide,

Mapping the curves we’ve yet to hide.

Your lips, a promise, warm and true,

A taste of wine, of me and you.

The night is ours, no rush, no fear,

With every kiss, you pull me near.

A dance of fire, slow and kind,

Our bodies sway, our hearts entwined.”

My voice is steady, but each word feels like an intimate confession, exposing a part of me I haven’t dared to share until now. I can feel Sasha’s gaze on me, the way her eyes linger on my lips as I read, and it makes my pulse quicken, my skin warm under the heat of her attention.

When I finish, the silence between us is thick, charged with the weight of the poem’s sensuality, the quiet promise of something more. Sasha’s lips parts, as if she is about to say something, but instead, she sets her glass down and moves closer, her movements slow, unhurried, like she’s savoring every second.

She doesn’t say a word. She just looks at me, her eyes soft and intent, and I can feel the pull, the magnetic draw of her that has been there from the start. I set the book aside, the pages falling shut, and turn to her, our faces inches apart. I can smell the wine on her breath, rich and heady, mingling with the faint scent of her perfume.

Sasha’s fingers brush the side of my cheek, a light, teasing touch that sends a shiver through me. She leans in, her lips hovering just above mine, and for a moment, we just stay there, the anticipation buzzing between us. I can feel her breath, warm and steady, the closeness of her making my heart pound.

Then she closes the distance, her lips meeting mine in a soft, lingering kiss. It is gentle at first, tentative, as if testing the waters, but it quickly deepens, fueled by the wine and the quiet intensity of the moment. Her mouth is warm and sweet, tasting of the dark, earthy notes of the wine, and I find myself sinking into it, my own lips parting to meet her.

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