With one hand around her hip and the other travelling the length of her delicate back, he eases her down, his head crooked to the left, affording his gaze the opportunity to drink in the sight of her bare breasts framed by the black shrug and the crimson peaks instantly hardened as they make contact with the cool gleam of the wood.
But just as his fingertips leave the base of her spine, brushing the crevice dividing the cheeks he aches to grasp, kiss and taste, he stops, suspends his touch and the maddeningly measured caresses, drawing back and away.
He retreats to pander completely to the voyeur inside him, to commit to memory the vision of the woman he has desired from a painful distance for an age, to watch her body’s rise and fall, to listen to her breath – short, sharp, on the verge of tortured – to listen and watch and deeply inhale the scent of her bloom, the body tamed and yearning and waiting, waiting for the moment he will part the slender thighs pressed tight and begin to finger the web of netting nestled against her smooth, dripping sex, waiting for the moment he rends that mesh without ceremony, overtaken at last by the urgency of his hunger and need to reunite their flesh, the need to bury his naked uncut glans into her cunt so deep from behind his cockhead kisses her womb, his balls fusing themselves to her plump, throbbing clitoris, so deep she will cry out, invoke the almighty, whimper his name and her pleas, so deep she will be possessed once again, reclaimed rightly as his, taken back at long last from another, taking her back to every moment, every whisper and groan, every utterance and devouring kiss, every bond, every bind, every decisive thrust and perfecting stroke, every minute they have fucked like animals in heat, every hour they sensually attended to their love in the dark, every glide of his shaft, coated with her glistening come, every clutch of her cunt, dreading the loss of his lust, every drop of his scorched rain, painting her fair skin, every surge of his come inside her, inside her, deep, deep inside in the place where it belongs.
Once his gaze falls upon her, once his touch maps the limits of her form, once his lips whisper their kisses into naked feminine warmth, she is changed, transformed.
No longer purely woman, she is more.
Muse, creation, force, she is the sigh, the moan, the roaring pulse, oil on canvas, the sensual delicacy of his brushstrokes, light and shade, the camera eye, shutter click slicing through the night, the sweetest skin, the honeyed come, voluptuous pixels aching to transcend the screen, the erotic words composed in fluorescent virtuality, the desire etched into her glistening velvet, the lustful yearning written on the body with tip of devouring tongue, with the artist’s hand, with the need of man, with the slide of thick, throbbing flesh, with the seductive scratch of the writer’s nib.
This body prone, craving, vulnerably anticipating your incendiary lust, the desires whispered, growled hotly into my waiting ear, the words exhaled into the curves trembling even now for the lightness of your touch, the words murmured along the straps drawn so tight you physically ache to tear the hooks, to rend each delicate fibre, to devour every morsel of my perfumed skin and
glistening flesh, your mouth lapping at my streaming cunt, your tongue raking the sweetest pleasure of my clitoris, your lips suckling on each plump petal of my throbbing sex until the first orgasm screams up from my bones, until you drink down the passion you effortlessly inspire, until these walls drip with my pleas, my moans for your hard naked cock, for you to fill me, to fuck me, to take me at long last, to make me your wanton lover, your woman, yours and yours alone.
Draped in silk and lace, draped in this cruel, unerring need for you, I wait.