You tease. And you kiss.

But you don’t let me kiss you.

You hold my head still,

And you slowly draw in. tease

Butterfly kisses, or licks

On my cheek, on my lips,

On my tongue, but you don’t let me

Move in for the kill.

This must be what it means

To be held in one’s thrall.

You tease, and you kiss.

Down my arm, as you hold me

Firmly but not hard, just to keep

Me in reach. Your hand cups the nape

Of my neck very gently

But as I said, firmly. You

Hold me in place.

Your left hand moves its way

Down my side, round my waist

To the small of my back

And draws me in to you

Till our bodies touch.

I can feel your desire

And as you grab handfuls of hair

On my head and pull it right back

I know very well that you

Can see mine.

You tease. And you kiss.

But this time it’s different.

You finally stop teasing.

And kiss me like you should.

With passion, with vigour,

With feeling, intensity,

With lust and desire

And an audible smile.

(I knew you would, eventually.)


Intensity and release

closeness-keeps-the-fire-burningDown the length of my body, my eyes meet his. A lazy, half-curled smile on his lips as he contemplates his next move. A hand slithers beneath me, and tugs me down further towards him, swivelling me until our bodies cross, and gently lifting me by the neck to him.

Way to make me anticipate a kiss, cheri.

He plants feathery kisses all over my body, in a way which reminds me of schoolboy crushes, from before I moved beyond the realms of virginity, from before I knew what else was out there… from when this was the ultimate in what turned my knees to jelly. Surprisingly, with him at least, it still does.

I return the favour by nibbling on his shoulder, and am rewarded with an affectionate growl of arousal. He kisses my mouth again, buries his head in the space between my chin and my breasts, and sighs loud and long.

It’s the most vocal communication we have for a while, save my own sighs, and his cries and grunts, and is the prelude to some of the most incredible and passionate physical intimacy I’ve ever experienced. We’re entwined in various permutations for literally hours, and I peak over and over and over again*, each time wondering whether I have it in me to achieve yet another orgasm. (I do.)

When he — finally — allows himself to climax, I am sat astride him; my skin glows in the dimmed light, my breath shallow and gasping, his no less so. He mutters something inaudible in French, but I catch the words “J’aime” and “ta chatte” and have a good idea of what it was that he said. Gently, I extricate myself and softly tumble down next to him, as he gathers me close. He strokes my skin, and I his.

We exhale… and smile.

* I lost count at eleven. Swear to dog.