Realest I've Ever Met
T4T representation, that's it
“oh...” She says, and pauses. He freezes up a little.
He knew this was coming, the realisation, and he's fully prepared for the rejection too.
“You're not a 'real' man then, are you?” She speaks in that deep voice of hers that makes something rumble deep in his core. Something raw and something carnal, something that makes her so much more desirable than other women.
“No...” He says simply, looking up and meeting her eyes as she returns the gaze. “I guess I'm not,” he adds as he continues to look into her eyes intently, accepting defeat, being the ultimate form of vulnerable that was left to be done in front of her.
A smile grows on her face, and she traces a finger along his jaw. It gives him shivers but he forces himself not to break eye contact. She shifts her eyes down to his lips and then back.
“Yes, you are, darling....” She finally says, voice deeper than usual. “Of course you're a Real man,” she puts stress on the word 'real' as she keeps gently caressing his jaw and then his neck, his collarbone and to the shoulder. She slides her fingers under his shirt and pushes off the fabric further to expose his full left shoulder. It's simple, it's subtle, but the act causes a fire to burn in the pit of his stomach.
“You're the Realest man I have ever met.....”
There's a pause. A breath. A sharp intake. And a smile, begrudgingly.
“So are you, by the way,” the man says after his long silence, still not having moved his eyes from her face while she painted him with hers. “The Realest woman I've ever met.”
She looks back up, and there's a glint in her eyes. They both know now, and they both care and don't care at the same time. She chuckles a little and that makes him smile probably the most genuine smile he smiled all evening, ignoring the countless times those present at the party a few hours ago extracted the faux gesture from him by force of habit. She prefers this one, she thinks. She lets him know. He is grateful, and he melts into her. She lets him and pulls him in as for the first time he experiences not being devoured.
She paints on him her long awaited masterpiece and he writes on her skin line after line of poetry he'd rather bottle up any other time.
For both of them, it's freeing. For both of them, it's divine.