My Love (Bwwm)

First Kiss

The night unfolded as Artie returned home, an unexpected fragrance trailing him, smelling like a bakery.His presence carried a captivating scent that stirred curiosity and intrigue.

As he handed me a bag of beignets with a warm smile, my eyes widened with delight. "I heard people from Louisiana like these. Thought you might enjoy them," Artie remarked, his tone soft yet filled with a subtle warmth.

Gratitude radiated from me as I smiled and thanked him, a genuine expression of joy mirrored in his eyes. "I'm happy you're happy, Dorothy," he said, the sincerity of his words creating a connection that resonated in the quiet room.
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The conversation shifted to planning for my birthday, and as I corrected him to "our birthday," he gently redirected the focus. "Let's just keep it about you, Dorothy," he suggested.

Artie, with a distant gaze, admitted, "I stopped caring about that a long time ago." The resignation in his voice hinted at a chapter of his life he was reluctant to revisit.

Unsatisfied with his response, I pressed on, "If you could do anything for your birthday, what would it be?" Artie, initially hesitant, eventually relented. "Alright, alright. I'll tell you. I'd want to relax and watch a boxing match at Madison Square Garden. That's it. Then maybe take a warm bath and get a good night's sleep. Although lately, the sleep part has been easier because of you letting me rest on your lap."

I couldn't help but burst into laughter. "That's it? Boxing?" The simplicity of his desire contrasted with the gangster persona I associated with Artie, adding a touch of humor to the quiet moment.

Artie chuckled at my jest, defending his appreciation for boxing. "Come on, Dorothy. It's the best sport," he insisted, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, of course you would think beating people up is a fun hobby," I teased, my tone carrying a hint of sarcasm. He laughed and gestured for me to come closer.

"Come here. Let me show you something."

Artie's eyes lit up with a spark of reminiscence as he continued to share fragments of his past. "My old man, he was a boxer when he first came to Ireland," he revealed, his voice carrying the weight of nostalgia. "Back then, times were tough. He'd jump in the ring, throw a few punches, and sometimes, he'd box for a bit of money. Survival, you know?"

As Artie spoke, his body seemed to sway and bob subtly, mimicking the movements of a seasoned boxer. There was an innate grace to his motions, a dance inspired by the rhythm of his father's footsteps in the ring.

"He'd dance around the ring, quick on his feet," Artie described, his own feet making nimble movements on the floor. "I'd watch him, absorbing every move. He taught me the basics, how to throw a jab, dodge a hook."

The room, filled with the echoes of Artie's recollections, transformed into an intimate arena where the ghost of his father's boxing legacy lingered. I listened, captivated, as Artie's words painted a vivid picture of a young boy absorbing the essence of the sport, learning not just the physicality of boxing but the resilience it took to survive in those challenging times.

Positioning himself behind me, Artie guided my fists into a defensive stance. "Put your fists up like this," he instructed, his hands gently molding mine into the correct position. He then began moving my fists in punching motions, imparting the basics of boxing.

I couldn't help but laugh softly, the sound mingling with the rhythmic cadence of our impromptu boxing lesson. My chest, however, betrayed the calm exterior, beating faster as the unexpected closeness stirred a blend of emotions within me.

As Artie continued guiding my fists in the motions of boxing, an undeniable heat pulsed through me, and my heart raced with an erratic tempo. The proximity and the unexpected turn of our conversation heightened the intensity of the moment. Swallowing my nerves, I gathered the courage to pose a question that had been lingering in my mind.

"Can I ask you something?" I inquired, my voice revealing a soft tremor. Artie, still standing closely behind me, responded with an affirmative nod.

"Do you find me beautiful?" The question hung in the air, vulnerability intertwining with anticipation. There was a brief pause, and then Artie's response pierced through, "Yes, very."

A mischievous grin played on my lips as I provocatively added, "Tell me more, Artie." His eyes, a mix of comfort and desire, locked onto mine as he leaned in, ready to indulge in the explicit details.

"Well, Dorothy," he began, his voice taking on a sultrier tone, "it's the tempting fragrance that wraps around you, the heat and depth in those mesmerizing eyes, the sinful richness of your dark skin that begs to be explored, the silky strands of your hair that practically invite fingers to tangle, and, of course, those lips – a provocative invitation, tempting any daring soul to taste the forbidden."

His words, now dripping with a more raunchy allure, painted a vivid image of desire, each detail a lascivious stroke on the canvas of his lustful admiration. The air crackled with an electric charge, an unspoken tension that flirted with the boundaries of explicit anticipation.

Embracing the charged atmosphere, Artie, now wearing a playful smirk, asked with a hint of arrogance, "Do you find me handsome, Dorothy?" Feeling bold, I immediately responded with a confident "Yes."

"I like your big arms and how tall you are," I added with a teasing smile.

Curious, Artie questioned, "How tall do you think I am?"

I grinned. "6'3."

His height, an imposing figure, seemed to amuse me. "It makes me feel feminine and secure," I confessed. Not content with my straightforward answer, Artie pressed on, "Is that all?"

"No," I replied, my bravado reaching new heights. "I can show you more than I can tell you." Turning around, I closed the gap, and with a sudden burst of passion, I pressed my lips against his in a fervent kiss, letting actions speak louder than any words could convey.

In the swirl of the passionate embrace, Artie held me close, and our lips met again, a fervent continuation of the desire that enveloped us. Breaking the kiss momentarily, he looked into my eyes, a playful glint in his own.

"Your first kiss, huh?" Artie teased, a charming smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

I nodded, feeling a mix of embarrassment and excitement. "Yeah, it is," I admitted, my voice a bit shaky.

Artie, his hold on my waist secure, leaned in to whisper, "Well, you're a quick learner." He punctuated the compliment with a lingering kiss, and the warmth of his words melted away any lingering unease.

Emboldened by his reassurance, I couldn't help but ask, "Is it weird that it was my first?"

Artie's response was tender, "Not at all, Dorothy. I like that I'm the one who gets to share these firsts with you." His words carried a promise of more to come, and a sense of anticipation hung in the air.

As our lips met once again, the unspoken commitment echoed through the passionate exchange, setting the stage for a future where Artie vowed to be my first in every way imaginable.

Breaking away from the passionate exchange, I turned towards the table with a playful pout on my lips. "Dammit, my beignets got cold."