And her first kiss was gentle.
He held her tenderly, his eyes were fixed on her.
Dearly, lovingly he kissed her small hands.
No ill intentions.
Without reservation, he kissed her hands as if she were a fragile rose, so softly as to not crush her petals with his lips.
He kissed her not knowing how else to express his desires.
He kissed her with instinct, with desire to touch her in the most loving way.
And she let him.
She wanted his kisses.
She wanted his love.
So, she held him as he kissed her.
As a man who loves a woman would kiss, he kissed her with tenderness and affection.
Daintily, gently, and dearly, as if she were snow that would melt against the warmth of his lips.
It was then that she knew how much she loved him.
How grateful she felt to have his presence in her life.
How she could die at that moment for he was her first and her last love.
He held her like he controlled time itself.
He held her as if time belonged to only them.
His arms were hers, his body was no longer his.
He would protect her with this earthly vessel and she would breathe life into his otherwise lifeless existence.
Together they were beautiful.
Together, they were alive.
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