Your hands move slow, deliberate, tracing fire where my pulse betrays me. Fingers, featherlight, then firm— a symphony of touch, a whispered plea. Your lips find the hollow of my throat, soft at first, then open, wanting. Teeth tease, tongue lingers, a slow, aching kind of haunting. I breathe you in— salt and heat, silk and sin. The bed protests beneath us, but the only sound I hear is your voice, low and rough, asking for more. Your mouth moves lower, worshipping, savoring, taking. You drink me in like the last drop of wine, tongue tracing, body breaking. I arch, I shudder, I beg— but you are patient, dragging pleasure out in wicked waves, watching me unravel beneath your hands. My nails dig into your skin, a desperate kind of poetry. Each gasp, each moan, a verse neither of us planned, but one we will sing again and again. Your name leaves my lips like a prayer, your body moves like a storm. We rise, we crash, we come undone— sweat-slicked, breathless, wanting more. And when the night collapses into dawn, when our hands loosen, when the fire dims— I know I will still feel you in the quiet spaces between my thighs, a melody tangled beneath my skin.