Not yet....-Part 1

“Not Yet”

She was unraveling.

The world around her buzzed with noise notifications, distractions, reels, likes, messages that meant nothing. Everything screamed for attention, yet nothing touched her soul. She craved silence, a kind she hadn't known in years. A longing stirred in her aching, wordless for some distant Neverland where everything slowed down and made sense again.

And then… he appeared.

It was at a workshop she had almost skipped. "Wellness bullshit," she had muttered under her breath. But curiosity, that subtle rebellion, had other plans.

He was tall. Still. A quiet majesty in his presence. His eyes shimmered with something rare awakeness. Not performative calm, but the steady weight of a man who had walked through his own fires. His voice, deep and steady, sliced through her like silk through skin.

When he spoke about awareness as intimacy, their eyes met. Just for a second. But something ancient inside her stirred. Or maybe it remembered.

Later, dazed and lit up, she sat alone at the café. Half hoping, half doubting, she’d see him again. And then there he was. Moving toward her like the moment had already been written.

“May I join you?”She hesitated but only with her lips. Her whole body was already a yes.

He asked questions about her life, her fatigue, her unlived dreams. Things that once felt mundane now felt like offerings. He listened like it was a devotion. She felt undressed not by his eyes, but by his attention.

They walked. They sat. They breathed in silence and laughter. And with each meeting, something deeper uncoiled in her. A soft ache. A recognition. A hunger not just of the body, but of the spirit. The kind of hunger that had nothing to do with need, and everything to do with being fully seen.

And one dusky evening, as the breeze held its breath, it finally happened.

Their fingers touched, and neither of them pulled away. Their mouths found each other slow at first, like the tide kissing the shore. Then deeper. Tongues tasting like they'd waited lifetimes. His hands slipped under her blouse, cupping the softness of her breasts, teasing circles around her nipples. She moaned guttural, low. A sound she didn’t know she could make.

Her hips arched, feeling the pressure of his desire hard against her. Skin on fire. Hearts wild. Breath tangled.

Then she pulled back.

Wordless.

Eyes burning.

She walked across the room, slowly, deliberately. Sat on the floor like a goddess in repose. One shoulder bare, hair messy, lips swollen. She looked at him with a gaze that melted centuries.

Come hither, her eyes said. But not yet.

He smiled not the smile of a man denied, but of one who knew the art of the pause. He poured wine. Two glasses. Walked to her with the ceremony of a priest.

“Cheers,” he said. Their glasses kissed.

He took one step back. Sat on the opposite side of the room, never breaking eye contact. The air thick between them. Sacred. Electric.

“I want to see the full glory of your breasts,” he said, voice low, reverent. Not a command. An invocation.

She didn’t speak. She simply slid the shawl off her shoulders, like shedding a skin that no longer fit. Her dress straps slipped down her arms slow as breath. Her body moved like music, unhurried and sure.

She reached behind, unhooked her bra.

And there they were. The rise and fall of her breath, the weight and curve of her—the rhythm of a woman in complete command of her reveal.

He didn’t move. Just stared.

With breath caught.

Desire held.

Still.

Not yet.