Dearest Pierce,
You steal my breath.
These are words I do not doubt you hear every day from persons far brighter and closer than I, yet I can only speak the simple truth. So many duels have I witnessed, and not one of those duelists has ever displayed a portion of the fire which drives you.
It intoxicates, the way you move, the way you push yourself to greater heights, drive your opponents back, taking no quarter and claiming your victory.
Such beauty takes my breath and stirs my blood to feverish levels. The effect you have upon me is hard to confine to mere words upon a page. I watch the way you move, see the exertion that soaks your clothes to the point that fine body is almost indecently revealed, and wish I was closer. Even at a distance I can see the fire that flashes in your eyes, and I wonder if I would burn should I manage to close the space between us.
To be the reason for that fire…ah, for a single night such as that, I would give up all that I possess. I see you duel, see you claim your victories, and wish that I could show you how it stirs me, the passion and affection that are yours alone, the pride and adoration.
Such a fine thing it would be to return to your chambers, to lay bare that fine body you have honed to perfection and explore every bit of it. To put my hands upon you and feel the hard muscle, the warm skin, the desire I wish I stirred in you…to replace hands with mouth and begin my explorations anew, tasting the sweat and musk of happy exertion…
What would you feel like beneath my touch? Is your skin soft, or roughened from all that time you spend out doors? Are the muscles beneath merely firm or hard as stone? Would you lay beneath me, content to be ravaged after claiming so thorough a victory in your duel? Or would you prefer to take me in yet another victory for the night?
The thought of being buried inside you leaves me hard and aching; it is difficult to pen these words when I want only to take myself in hand, imagine how you would look consumed by passion, wishing I was there to see it, that you would call my name as you found release as I say yours alone in my room.
Yet I continue to write, the same way I would continue to torment you with pleasure, keeping you from release until you so sweetly begged for it. That would be a pretty sight indeed.
Better still, however, is the thought of being the one taken. To know you want me, want to claim me, that I stir in you a fire greater than even that brought on by a rapier…
That would be perfection.
Alas, I shall have to content myself with the knowledge that perhaps my simple words stir your blood the slightest bit, though I am destined ever to remain—
Watching From Afar,
A pale and distant star