Infatuated: A short burst of affectionate desire; usually short-lived; might evolve into love.
Vincent and I are infatuated with each other. We want to spend every waking and sleeping hour with each other.
I enjoy watching him watching me. We spy each other and when caught, look away immediately, chagrined.
When I study his lissome frame, I see tight flanks and the broad shoulders of a swimmer; a lithe throat; an eye-catching jaw; and eyes whose dark pin-dotted pupils are haloed by honey, then fade to viridian.
Vincent enjoys pancaking rather than waffling when we hold hands. His unfolded paws encircle mine when pancaking, and our fingers crochet like piano keys when waffling.
We “pinky swear” decisions. For instance, we’ve agreed that when we kiss, we always kiss twice at the same spot; whether it be on the chin, the throat, behind the ear, lips, or the shallow pool of flesh called a belly button.
Vincent and I have been dating for three weeks now. Weekly we spend an inordinate amount of time with the other. Three nights on average.
At night and after dinner we come back to the estate where I’m staying, start a roaring fire in the outdoor pit, and snuggle up to share each other’s warmth.
Vincent and I are infatuated with each other. It’s an attraction blessed by heaven itself.