Was it a word, a gesture, a quality, a look?

Was it your mind, your body, your desire, your face?

Was it the deep and accented voice laced with carnal passion and erotic yearning?

Was it the connection, our chemistry, the way my diminutive curves always felt the most perfect complement to your overwhelming presence and strength?

Was it the soft brush of your mouth, followed quickly by our sensual and ravenous kiss?

Was it the trail of my tongue along the curve of your neck and throbbing line of your cock, eager to taste a uniquely masculine scent and warmth?

Was it your command for me to hook my thumbs through the ebony straps, exposing myself to you with a complete and wanton brazenness I’ve only ever imagined and dreamed?

Was it your fingers teasingly charting the fullness of my dripping lips before filling my sweet cunt to the hilt and fusing with molten fire our need?

Was it the slow reveal that left me breathless at every turn, that left me aching and sodden from the very beginning, that has me craving to this day, that has me wondering through each long and lonely night?

Was it one or the other? Was it our every moment together?

Was it – and is it – your all?

My body refuses to forget the flavour of your carnality, the addictive high of your sensual pleasure.

You make me writhe
and gleam with
illicit want.

With this white expanse made for two, the crisp sheets begging to be tangled and soiled,
the play of sensual light and dangerous shadows, the woman aching to be reduced
to a sodden and trembling mess, can you blame me for this hotel fetish?

Bring me your hands.
And the stories they ache to write upon my skin.

Use anything at hand. Use everything that catches your eye and incites your carnal imagination.

Your commanding grip.

The decadent silk strip nestled against your chest, whose arrowhead invariably directs my gaze to the virile need hardening between your legs.

The pungent leather that bears your scent plus mine. The alluring danger of its glistening clasp.

The cashmere that moments ago clung to the soft slope of my shoulder and kissed the delicate swell of each creamy breast.

Use it all to bind me, to shroud my sight, to plunge me into your dark hunger.

Then use me.

Take and possess every inch of skin, every morsel of flesh, every moan and tremble, every ravenous hole and dripping slit you have craved to fill and ravage and mark.

Lover, use me and make me yours.

When I imagine you here, I can almost feel your lips tasting the indigo sunset straight from my bare skin.

I can almost feel your hand replacing mine between these thighs. I can almost feel your thumbs circling the yielding softness above the stocking tops.

I can almost feel your finger tracing my jawline with a subtlety that leaves me struggling for breath, before you tilt lightly my chin to feed the hunger blistering my tongue with your kiss and your burnished flesh.

I can almost feel your shaft thicken and harden in my delicate palm, just as I can almost hear your body groan the syllables of my name.

I can almost feel your knees easing my legs wide apart. I can almost feel your beard marking each trembling curve and hollow with the gleaming fire from my sweet cunt.

When I sit here watching the day’s fading light, I can almost feel every stroke, every thrust of your savage need, every cry from my own body as you take me, as you fuck me with your carnal darkness.

I miss summer’s sun
drenched mornings, your hard
heat buried deep inside my ravenous flesh.

Even at this cruel distance, I can feel your hand slipping through the belted mesh, coaxing my hips to the height of your hard and jutting flesh; I can feel your ragged breath as your fingers travel my slender back, stopping suddenly at the small to spread my cheeks shamelessly wide open, to expose to your hungry gaze the pouting, wanton cunt gleaming its need, dripping its want, forever and always, for you.

Lost and alone in the ice storm,
searching and reaching for the man,
the hands that will bring me in from the cold.