v u l v a l i c i o u s
the taste of wanting
You open your mouth for me. Soft. The tip of my index finger brushes against your lower lip, and I feel the contact in my skin even after you've gone.
Ownership. Taking. My hand on your neck, close to bruising your delicate skin. Breath and heat. Teeth.
You're such a tender thing. I feel myself sinking into you, mouth and teeth first. The taste of blood on the tip of my tongue and the sound of surprise in your throat.
I trace the muscles, veins, sinew, flesh of your arms, shoulders. Taste the sweat and warmth of your belly and every soft, hidden part of you. If I am being honest I'd say that the thought of making you a little uncomfortable pleases me. Writhing, wriggling, squirming. Every small sound you could possibly make a delight to me.
Such delicious torment.
My tongue inside of you, inside your ass. My hands holding you open, holding you down. Grabbing and pressing and kneading. The sound of you begging for more, harder, deeper, please. Please.
Fucking you, tasting you. Yes. Those things, obviously. Devouring you, the sweetness of it. Feeding you afterwards. Chocolate and fruit. Sharing a water glass and watching you drink.
Holding you close afterwards, the smell at the back of your neck.
You're not mine. But I want to have you. I want to.