Art of the dancing lovers

Their day interthreads with sacred ceremony—Neva and Rhett as one.

The bride, her groom, and a priest. And above them, His blessings. Their marriage is more perfect than ever.

For memories, Rhett had set up a camera stand—to capture the weaving of their love in its living colours. Performing its art, the blessed angle of the camcorder.

Portraits from this allegory of love shall hang on the walls they whisper home.

In wildflower meadows of two hearts—never to be lured apart.

To remember themselves, when young and beautiful—when grey and older.

For their descendants to cherish and adore.

As twilight folds into evening, the breeze stirs gently, murmuring sprinkles of snow as the wintry night draws near.

"Are you cold?" Rhett asks, brushing a hand across her blushing cheek.

Neva lifts her gaze, meeting his eyes for a heartbeat—then shyly looks away.

His eyes—bright, fond, and devastatingly gentle ripples her heart, a swarm of butterflies fluttering in her belly.

Then she shakes her head at him in response. She's warm enough in her peach cardigan, and the wedding dress fluttering underneath.

They walk toward their little cottage house, their hands brushing, their hearts full.

A home made perfect for the sweetness of love to preserve.

Rhett slides his hoodie off, draping it over her shoulders. She looks up, eyes glowing, breath curling into mist.

Ah… this brings back memories. Neva wonders.

Without warning, he lifts her off the ground. Her eyes widen, arms circling his neck as he bridal-carries her.

Her cheeks redden scarlet.

"Rhett… what if someone sees us?" Her voice lowers, scanning the hush of the feathery, snowy world.

"It's perfectly fine. My wife."

He gazes down, eyes trailing to her lips—sweet, pink, tempting.

He leans in, savouring them, lingering at her strawberry brim.

She smiles, cheekily burying her flustered face in his warm chest. He chuckles—a giddy sound she has always found strangely attractive.

When she first heard him laugh, she wanted to drive this familiar feeling away.

But now—she doesn't push him away, and this sound that makes her heart melt.

She's cradled in the arms of a man once wrapped in mystery. Yet now, he carries her home. Him. Who she sings out to the world as her husband now.

Each stride brings their cottage closer.

A delicate floral wreath hangs on the coffee-coloured door—welcoming them into their first night of forever.

"You can put me down," she mutters, suddenly still shy to meet his eyes.

"Nuh-uh," he teases, swaying his head sassily.

"Not ever." A fearless grin breaks across his lips.

"What?" she breathes.

He doesn't answer, only smiles.

Her lips pout faintly. His gaze dances with mischief.

At the doorstep, he pauses—then kisses her softly. She slaps his chest in playful protest.

"Ow! Bad wifey, hitting me on our day."

"My bad, sweet hubby. But how do we get in?"

He pecks her lips again, "I'll walk in. And you shall unravel the way."

He gestures at the black handbag he'd tossed onto his shoulder. She purses her lips, unzips it, fishes out the keys, and unlocks the door—still safe in his arms.

Together, they step inside the warm hush of their snug little home.

"Now will you?" she tries again.

Rhett looks at her with a softness that melts her. "Never."

"I have to change and shower," she murmurs, her body aching for soft clothes and breath.

"I'll help you change. And accompany you in bathe," he declares proudly.

She chuckles, "No you won't."

He bumps the bedroom door open with his shoulder. They enter the room.

"Why not?" he frowns, exaggerated and boyish.

They're married now. Was she unknown, the manner of their bodies will be as of today?

"Aren't we making love tonight?" he asks, voice steeped in longing. A quiet brew of eagerness and ache.

This feeling, which only she can delight from him. Ease him.

Her cheeks burn crimson.

Her body flushes hot.

"I have to make dinner," she murmurs instead.

He lays her down on the bed—beige sheets blooming with little florals.

He hovers above her, eyes darkened.

"We just had lunch. Not hours ago. And I cannot sway away my desire for you anymore." He says, kissing her soft lips.

Upper brim, then lower.

He nibbles, savours, warms her. Tongue tasting her, teasing heat into her skin.

With one hand, he quickly discards his black blazer.

Her fingers twist into his hair, then slide down to his chest, pushing him away.

Their breath mixes, warm and heavy—brushing against each other's agaped lips.

"At least let me bathe," she whispers, gasping lightly.

"I'm dying here," he exhales, resting his forehead against hers.

"I'll be fast," she promises, a breath between her lips.

She gathers herself, presses a hand to his chest and moves him back.

She sits up, then looks at him with wistful eyes.

"You can shower in the other room, alright?"

She pecks his lips again, then slides her thick sweaters off and hurries away.

Rhett, in love, watches her go, his smile blooming like dawn.

Just a few minutes—yet his heart pounds like fire. She'll soon be his. Entirely his.

♡｡

Snow feathers the air. Frost stars the windowpane.

He waits for his bride on their bed, petals of scarlet roses scattered like poetry.

She makes no sound as she approaches. Her hush feet near. Her breath heavy. Her heart racing.

She glows, enchanted, wrapped in only a towel, fingers gripping the knot at her chest.

He steps close—so close her resolve crumbles. She can't meet his eyes.

So, gently, he lifts her chin. Her gaze meets his.

And in the mirror of his soul, she sees an ablaze of love.

And lust. And her home so eternal.

He brushes his lips against hers, feather-light. She kisses back—slow, warm, full of breath and promise.

She parts her lips. "Can we turn the lights off?"

"Whichever you prefer," he smiles, asking for nothing, wanting only her.

He leans in again—but she stops him.

"Wait."

She moves toward the cabinet, collecting scented candles and a matchbox. She walks about the room—placing them like soft stars.

Rhett trails after her.

She lights each wick, amber glow softening the night.

He switches off the light.

Darkness folds into warmth, and the candle flames cast golden halos—airbrushing the married lovers.

He wraps his arms around her from behind. Nuzzles her neck. Kisses her there—wet and slow.

She exhales, trembling.

"I can't believe we're married," he murmurs.

"Me too," she whispers, feverish.

He turns her gently. His chest bare, clothed only from the waist down. Her eyes are cast down, heart thrumming, cheeks burning, butterflies churning in her belly.

He kisses her again, deeper. Hungrier.

His hand meets her chest, teasing the knot again. She clasps it. He slowly unfurls her fingers—one, then the other.

The towel falls.

She gasps. Her breath becomes fragile.

He lifts her chin again, locking her gaze.

"It's alright," he murmurs.

"Can I look?" His voice is gentle. Slightly playful with a smirk drawn on his lips. But so tender.

She hits his chest—light, bashful.

He giggles. She smiles, easing, falling into his warmth.

"Can I, Angel?" he whispers again, kissing her temple.

She nods. For she knows those lips.

Those gleaming eyes.

His burning soul.

His mysterious heart.

He lifts her in his arms once more. Carries her to the bed where scarlet petals bloom beneath her.

He caresses her lips, her curves.

His fingers write poetry.

His lips paint stars.

Slow, deep movements. A white quilt veils their joined torsos. Her nails trace her name into the skin of his back.

Her back arches. Her moans soft. His grunts low.

Tongues twirl. Souls tremble. Skin veiled in chills and dribble of warm sweats.

A wildfire of love.

Dripping kisses. Hungry bones. Burning eyes.

He smiles—soft—breathless—as her dazed, misty eyes melts into his.

A single tear slips down her temple.

He leans in. Kisses it away. Drinking her in.

This passion devours them.

The closest two souls can ever be.

Spirit into spirit.

Breath into breath.

Their rhythm is a sacred dance—

Of tenderness, desire, and trembling surrender.

A roaring fire of pleasure and prayer.

And in their joining,

A seed of love is sown—of something deeper than desire.

Something eternal.

Silhouettes flicker.

The candles burn lower.

The world fades into velvet hush.

Soft "I love you"s drift into sighs, tangled in heartbeat and skin.

The room whispers with the holy art of two—married lovers—making sacred, sensual love.