It's sweat and spit and that ripe carnal stink
that wafts up from between our shaking thighs,
blood rushing to the face, the throat, the eyes,
and also there--the pulse won't let us think
of consequence, just heat, the hot slick skin
and flesh, throbbing and parting with a cry,
heels hooked behind my calves, and I could die
in that wet heart of you--you pull me in
and we are sliding, pulsing, driving deep,
my hand over your eyes, your open lips,
and tongues of fire along your neck and breast,
your nails striping my back, teeth at my chest--
all friction and motion, sunk in your hips,
moments from ecstasy, and hours from sleep.
1 comment:
Scott, everything you wrote while on vacation was good -- as usual. You were right to put an "Advisory" on this one. It's steamy -- and beautifully visceral.
Have fun in New England.
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