Little Death - Poem by Delilah Love
He touches you and so sharply you inhale.
His fingers cool and sweetly tender glides between your quivering thighs gradually ascending; breathless and yearning; you can do no more then tightly close your eyes and wait.
He's right behind you; the heat emitting from his frame drives you against the stucco wall; his magnetism cloaks you both in a world of unbridled eroticism and the thought of it releases a mewling whimper from your lips. Can you imagine? Can you see it? Can you feel the rampant lust swimming through the air like nymphs on gossamer wings coaxing you to give into him?
Your hair is swept aside as he exposes your neck for only his eyes to see...for only the carnal pleasure he will administer. The very length of him presses you further to the wall...into the wall and you allow it...you relish it. The blessing of his lips upon your nape is torture, a sort of sweet torture you're more than willing to submit to.
It's a euphoric experience; inhumanly impossible to explain to any other just how thrilling it feels when his fingers adroitly flex and caress the apex of your entire being.
Eros personified, he knows you inside and out, he knows how to make you tremble, how to elicit love cries from your very core, he knows how to make it so that your leaning back against him as his fingers unfurl your honeyed sex, his volcanic mouth laving your naked chest; you're whimpering and writhing completely at his mercy
Your gasping cries is music to his ears; your hands clenched tight, digging half moons in your tender palms'the pain inconsequential as your neck snaps back against his shoulder, you nonsensical mewls plead with him not to stop as you brazenly spread your legs, rocking with the motion of his fingers.
His main objective is your pleasure. He will not cease until you fall into the abyss and kiss the frighteningly sweet lips of your little death.
You call him the very best of friends
The better half of your world
Your dearest husband.
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