“When all else fails, write what your heart tells you.
You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.”
-Mark Twain
Passion.
A strong and barely controllable emotion.
Lust.
A very strong sexual desire.
Love.
An intense feeling of deep affection.
Emotion. Desire. Affection.
Ask me, if I could have only one, which of these three I’d prefer. Most would say love, yes?
Not me.
I’d pick passion.
Passion’s reckless in its existence. It defies rules. It dances on the edge of all reason. Passion rises even in the midst of chaos when everything feels lost and hopeless. It doesn’t care what is right or wrong…it just is. Sounds pretty scary, I know. And it is. But ah how it burns in the best and worst ways. How it scorches our bellies with want, offering us the sweetest of highs once it’s sated.
But the three together, passion, lust, and love, or emotion, desire, and affection? EDA, I called it. The triple threat. It’s the wheel of dharma—the path to nirvana. And Wren had just started laying the brickwork for the journey to nirvana that he would lead me to. I knew I had passion for Wren—he was my muse. We had lust covered, no doubt. And then, one day, in the blink of an eye, love snaked its way in. At least it did for me, anyway.
In my novels, I’d created gorgeous scenes between my hero and heroine, moments tinted with poetic backdrops where one fell for the other. I’d never made it simple. There was always something else that added to the feelings—imagery. Ocean waves crashing against a cliff as they stared into each other’s eyes. Cold rain pouring from a dark sky, droplets beading down their faces. This type of thing. But it wasn’t like that with Wren.
We were in my bedroom.
On a mattress.
On the floor.
Letting him in my home, in my room, had been harder than I thought it would be. Had it not been for all the wine I’d consumed, I’m not sure I would’ve invited him in. Everything was going well until we were ascending my stairs—that’s when the panic had set in. I had nothing. Not really. And I was okay with having nothing. But I knew the outside world wouldn’t understand. Would he judge me? Think of me as pathetic because I lived in such an empty way? Once we were in my bedroom, I moved through the dark and plugged in the strand of white lights that hung over the mirror my grandmother had left me after she’d passed. I hoped providing a softer light might aid in making my living situation seem less…well, less.
Turning back to face him, I pressed on a smile in an attempt to disguise the anxiety I was feeling about him being in my home. I had already kicked him out before. Our comfort had grown since then. It was now or never, right? His hands were on his hips, his mouth flat as he gazed about my room. When he finally moved his stare to meet mine, I wasn’t sure what I’d find in his eyes. Pity? Uncertainty? Aversion? I held my breath with unreasonable worry. But I found none of those. Instead, he gazed to me in a way that spoke to me even though he hadn’t breathed a word. And I exhaled.
What am I going to do with you, woman?
I shrugged in response. I wished I had a better answer to give him.
Keeping his stare locked with mine, he undressed before me while I watched, my body temperature rising with each garment he removed. When he was finished, he stood before me in his naked god-like glory, and flexed his brows. It was my turn now. He was comfortable here. He was comfortable with me.
I slipped my dress over my shoulders and let it pool at my feet. Unhooking my strapless bra, I dropped it before stepping out of my wedged heels and leaned toward him. He bent down as if to kiss me, but stopped short, teasing me. He accepted me. Even the imperfect parts. But he wouldn’t be him if he didn’t tease me. Made me work for it. Hooking his fingers around the sides of my lace thong, he caressed my body with soft kisses as he kneeled before me, leisurely pulling my panties down my legs. I threaded my fingers in his hair earning a lust-filled groan from him that made my core tighten. Languidly, he stood and scooped me up in his arms, carrying me to my bed. In the next hours, our bodies joined, touched, caressed, sweated, and pulled every ounce of energy from the other. Beyond what we did or were doing, the humble surroundings felt oddly romantic to me. I’d spent so many nights in the emptiness of this room alone, believing my choice to have nothing matched me. I was empty, and the lack of material things was a visual representation of how I felt inside. Simple. Empty. But tonight, with Wren in my bed, suddenly that simplicity felt beautiful. There was no dresser, or beautiful armoire, or photographs, but there was passion, and moans, and pleasure, and want. In a large and practically barren room, we lay together a couple feet off the floor on a queen-sized mattress, hardly taking any space, yet everything, for the first time in a long time, felt so full.
And that was when it happened.
That was when I fell in love with Wren Marner.