Slow, love, slow

“Not yet, my love, not yet”—

but my hands ache to trace the lines

where your pulse runs hot,

to know the places only the night can find.

Still, we linger in the in-between,

holding breath and boundaries,

caught in this sweet agony of wanting.

“But I—”

“Not yet,” you whisper,

a command wrapped in promise,

and I feel the thrill of surrender held back,

a dance where neither steps too close

and neither turns away.

“You're so pretty when you’re burning for me…”

and your words are embers on my skin,

stoking the heat between us,

fueling something ancient,

raw, and hungry in the heart of me.

“You don’t make it easy for me, either,

my sweet little Scorpion.

You never did.”

It’s in the way you look at me,

a glance that lingers, holds,

like a whisper in the dark,

or the curve of a smile

that promises but does not give—

a tease, a dare, a challenge met.

I could let you take all of me now,

but not yet, my love, not yet.

For the sweetness lies in the waiting,

the slow climb and steady burn,

each second stretched like silk

between us, taut and trembling.

You feel it too, the way you move

just close enough to tempt,

just far enough to taunt,

and I’m caught in the spell

of your careful chaos,

lost in a rhythm only we know,

a song of lips that nearly meet,

and hands that hover,

the space between us alive with sparks.

I am yours in the aching spaces,

in the dark corners of restraint,

where breath mingles and bodies lean,

yet still we hold the line,

letting the wanting bloom like fire,

like red embers refusing to die.

You say I am pretty when I burn,

and maybe it's true—

but only because you see me

like no one else ever has,

and maybe that’s what I need,

someone who doesn’t rush to conquer

but savors the slow unravel,

the delicate surrender,

the heat that grows in waiting.

In your arms, I am not conquered;

I am set ablaze, and it’s a fire

that we feed with whispers and glances,

fingertips tracing promises

we may or may not keep.

You hold me close but not too close,

and I dance in the space you leave,

both craving and denying,

feeling every beat, every pulse,

a rhythm as old as longing itself.

Perhaps this is what it means

to love with passion unbound,

to live in the tension,

the sweet ache of not yet, not yet,

knowing that when we finally fall

into each other’s arms,

the flames will consume,

but not destroy.

You’ve always known how to keep me here,

hovering at the edge,

neither caught nor free,

and maybe that’s why

I burn for you,

why I return to this slow fire,

this waiting that feels like home.

For you are not a conquest,

nor a lover simply held;

you are the spark and the tinder,

the flame that warms and the fire that sears,

and I, your willing kindling,

wait in the shadows of your voice,

a blaze hidden in the softness of your touch,

a heat that only grows in the dark.

So hold me here, in this wanting,

and let the flames lick between us,

for this is the passion I seek,

one that dares me to linger in the ache,

to savor each spark, each sigh,

knowing that when the moment comes,

we will ignite like stars,

and I will burn, beautiful and wild,

in the arms of the only one

who truly sees the fire in me.