Blair looks good in candlelight. Blair looks good in
anything, now that I think about it, but there's something about the soft glow of
candlelight that brings out the real beauty of my lover.
His eyes reflect the flame and for a moment, I'm not sure which is the reflection and which is the heat of Blair's passion looking back at me.
His hair seems alight with golden fire and if I focus, I can see a myriad shades of brown and auburn in the curls I long to run my fingers through.
His skin is golden in this light, dusted with soft hair that I ache to stroke and pet.
He's lying there, on the rug in front of the fireplace, no light except for the candles scattered around, just watching me, his cheeks flushed slightly red, his tongue licking his lush lips from time to time.
Suddenly, it's not enough just to look. I need to touch him, to taste him and I move forward and stroke a gentle hand down his warm cheek.
I pull my hand back and press my lips to his forehead just as he sneezes.
"Ah crap," he says huskily as he sits up, wiping a hand under his nose. "Sorry, big guy."
I sigh and stand up, grab the tissues from the coffee table and hand him a handful then watch as he blows his nose noisily.
"Guess you caught the flu after all," I say with what I consider to be admirable patience and sympathy.
He sniffs as he dabs his reddened nose with the tissues and looks up at me, his eyes huge and beautiful in his candlelit face. "Sorry,"he says again. "Not very romantic of me."
I kneel in front of him and kiss his eyes, his nose (carefully) and then his beautiful mouth - just a peck; if I get the flu too, who the hell will take care of him?
Then I pull him to his feet and over his laughing, somewhat hoarse protests carry him up to our bed.