The Cape Town heat was heavy that night, clinging to the air. Though, the moment I saw her, the room seemed to stop breathing. It wasn't just the blue eyes or the blonde hair; it was the energy radiating from her—a mix of innocence and a hidden, waiting fire.
We had teased each other in messages, a playful dance of words. Standing there in the dim light, the distance between us evaporated. The air hummed with electricity. When our eyes locked, the sounds of the party buzz, faded into the background. Her husband watched us, a knowing smile on his face, and when he nodded—"Don't get carried away," he teased, though his eyes said, go ahead—it felt like a gift. Permission to explore the magnetic pull we both felt.
The drinks were just a prop; the real intoxication was her proximity. Arms found their way around shoulders, cheeks pressed together, the scent of her perfume mixing with the humid night air. What started as a pose for a photo melted into something undeniably real. I could feel the warmth of her breath, the slight tremble in her frame.
Then, ........ a whisper of wax.
I leaned in, my voice low against her ear, intimate and steady. "Do you trust me?"
She paused, looking for her husband’s reassurance, then back at me. Her gaze softened, yielding. "Yes."
We moved into the neon-lit room, a private sanctuary of ultraviolet light. When she settled onto my lap, skin against skin, it wasn't just physical; it felt like two puzzle pieces finally snapping into place. My heart hammered, not from nerves, but from the sheer intensity of holding her.
The first drop of neon wax was a shock of warmth against her breast. I felt her sharp inhale, her body arching instinctively closer to mine seeking comfort. Then it hit my chest—hot, binding, electric. It ran in rivers of blue and pink, glowing in the darkness, tracing the lines where our bodies had met.
I didn't just watch her; I studied her. Her head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted in a silent gasp. I traced the path of the wax with my thumb, marveling at how responsive she was, how her skin rippled under my touch. It was a slow, deliberate worship. Every touch was a question, and her body was the answer.
The wax began to harden, a beautiful, fragile shell sealing us together. I kissed her shoulder, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling the frantic beat of her pulse against my lips. She kissed my chest, her mouth soft and searching. Away from that room filled with people and flashing cameras, we were alone. Just the sound of our synced breathing and the feeling of being completely wrapped up in one another.
When the moment ended, we didn't rush to separate. We stayed tangled, savoring the aftermath. Later, in the quiet intimacy of the bathroom, peeling the wax away became its own tender ritual. I watched the vibrant colors flake off, revealing her flushed, beautiful skin underneath—pink, alive, and glowing.
I then looked at her , really looked at her. Her eyes were glassy, her lips swollen, a soft vulnerability on her face that took my breath away. I knew she felt the same profound connection I did.
Now, weeks later, the memory still catches in my throat. I’ll send a text, just to feel that spark again:
Remember the heat?
Remember how perfectly you fit?
And she answers. ......Always.
