Swept Away

The days with Matthew were becoming more than I had ever imagined. What started as gentle, tender moments between us had begun to evolve into something deeper, something that made my heart race and my thoughts linger longer than I ever expected.

One morning, as I walked into my office, I was greeted by a stunning bouquet of flowers resting on my desk. The colors were soft—roses in shades of lavender and pale peach, their petals delicate and fragrant, filling the room with their subtle sweetness. The note attached was simple, but the words struck a chord.

For the woman who makes my heart sing—Matthew.

I smiled as I touched the petals gently, surprised by the thoughtful gesture. The fact that he had taken the time to pick flowers that I wouldn’t be allergic to only made me appreciate him more. He was always so considerate, so attuned to my needs and wants. It wasn’t just the flowers; it was the way he thought of everything—my allergies, my comfort, my happiness.

Later that evening, as I arrived at my house, another bouquet awaited me—this time, even grander. It was a mix of lilies, daisies, and peonies, arranged with a perfect balance of color and elegance. A handwritten card rested atop the arrangement.

For you—always. Matthew.

It was the little things, like this, that made my heart swell. He didn’t just send flowers; he sent them with meaning, with care. And the way he paid attention to the details—choosing ones that would never make me sneeze or cause my skin to break out—spoke volumes about how much he truly cared.

Our time together became more special with each passing week. Matthew took me to dinner at a few of the more upscale restaurants in town. We dined at candle-lit tables, tucked away in cozy corners, where the world outside felt distant and unimportant. His presence was enough. He’d pull out my chair with a smile, his hand grazing mine as we sat. When we’d talk, the conversations were easy—never forced—flowing seamlessly between light banter and deep, meaningful discussions.

There were moments when he’d lean in, his lips grazing my ear as he whispered sweet words to me, words that made my pulse quicken and my heart flutter.

“You’re so beautiful, inside and out,” he’d say softly, his breath warm against my skin. “I appreciate everything you are. Everything you do. I just want you to know how much you mean to me.”

His voice was smooth, but it carried such sincerity, such emotion, that I couldn’t help but melt into him. Every whisper, every touch, made me feel cherished. He wasn’t just showing affection; he was showing devotion, respect, and love.

The passion between us continued to grow, too. Matthew’s kisses became deeper, more intense, but still respectful. He’d pull me closer, his lips pressing gently against mine at first, then gradually more urgently, as if trying to convey all his feelings in a single kiss. His hands would wander, exploring my back, resting on my waist, sometimes brushing a little too close to places that made my heart race. But he always paused, never pushing further unless I showed him I was ready.

One evening, after a beautiful dinner at a cozy bistro, he walked me back to my apartment, his arm wrapped around my waist, holding me close. The streets were quiet, the only sound the distant hum of city life. When we reached my door, he turned to face me, his eyes filled with longing.

“I’m not trying to rush anything,” he whispered, his voice low and thick with emotion, “but I want you to know that I care for you—more than I’ve cared for anyone in a long time. You’re worth every gesture, every moment.”

I looked up at him, my chest tight with emotion. He wasn’t rushing, but he was giving me his all—his time, his heart, his trust. And I felt it, deeply.

Matthew cupped my face gently, tilting my chin so I could meet his eyes. Without a word, he kissed me. The kiss was soft at first, exploring, patient. But it quickly deepened, his lips pressing against mine with a hunger that mirrored my own. His hands moved to the small of my back, pulling me even closer, my body aligning with his.

I didn’t want him to stop. And yet, as his hand brushed the side of my breast, he paused—hesitating, as though seeking my permission. His breath was shallow against my lips.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I wanted him, more than I had ever wanted anyone. But more than that, I wanted this—this slow, deliberate connection. I wanted him to teach me how to love in a way that was respectful, that took its time and honored the depth of our emotions.

Matthew smiled, a soft, tender smile that made my heart flutter. “We’ll go slow. Only as fast as you’re comfortable with.”

His kiss grew more passionate then, but there was still reverence to it. He kissed me like I was fragile, but with a fire that I could feel in the pit of my stomach. His hands moved lower, caressing my sides, but he kept himself restrained—always checking in with me, always making sure I felt safe and wanted.

We eventually pulled away, both breathless, standing in the quiet of the night, the warmth between us lingering in the cool air.

“I want you to know,” Matthew said, his voice hushed, “that I’m here for the long haul. No rush. Just… you and me. When you’re ready, we’ll take whatever step you want. I’m patient.”

I smiled at him, my heart full. “I’m ready for this,” I said, my voice steady, confident. “I’m ready for us.”

Matthew kissed me again, this time with a softness that made my heart swell. I knew then, without a doubt, that whatever came next, I was falling for him, and he was falling for me. And we would take this journey together, slowly, but with passion, respect, and love.