In the Still

You linger. You linger still.

You linger in the quiet, in the hush, in the velvet shadows of this sultry night, in the silvery glow of the moon, in the fine beads prickling my skin, in the delicate fingers tracing the body of your once incendiary desire, in the whisper, the whimper, in the cry, in the bloom of my lips, the tingling of my tongue, the breasts creamy and fair, the nipples of the softest pink, in the peaks of the darkest crimson reaching out for your sweet kiss, in the sensual sway of my hips as I ease away the cotton, the lace, the silk sodden with my deep, demanding feminine lust.

You linger. You linger still.

You linger in the noise, in the riot, in the late summer storm, in the lightning cracking its whip, in the blood thudding, pumping through these veins, in the bright glistening cunt aching, longing, yearning for your perfecting flesh, in the cries, in the moans as my passion climbs its way to you, as it finds you, as you find me, as you come back to me, your body under me, your hard thick uncut cock impaled inside my clutching sex, this fine back arching, my hands seizing, giving, committing to memory the masculinity, the man who invariably leaves me weak, our bodies gliding, our bodies grinding, your own hands touching, possessing, reaching up to stifle, to bind, to free the screams of our darkest carnal pleasure.

You linger. You linger still.

You linger in the here, in the now, you linger and take me, you linger and claim me, with the slightest word, with the smallest gesture, with the voice, the breath mellifluous, reaching out from across the sea, from the other side, from this room of our own, your body my shelter, your desire my home.