She’s laying with her head on my chest, cheek turned against my sternum, fingertips dragging slowly up and down my ribs, over and over. It’s nearly 3am and we’ve been going at it since 11, after we got back from the show, after she’d bought bunches of tulips from a cart on the street as we meandered, hand in hand over wet pavement streaked with reflected neon, after we’d poured into her apartment, roughly kissing, laughing, tripping. Hours later her forearm is still stained by pollen, delicate golden smudges that look like fading bruises. I touch them and the thought of her in pain, of her flesh conceding, makes me feel both sick and dizzy. To stop myself from saying so, I shift and pull her face to mine so she’s laying over me. This is where she’s most magical, up close and daring, with her grey blue eyes and the the softest mouth I’ve ever seen, the stunning hieroglyph that is the tiny scar at the side of her nose. She feels like velvet in my arms and I can smell the warm, woodsy sweetness of her neck. Her fingertips have left my ribs and they rest on my face, thumbs smoothing back and forth along my cheeks.
“What is it, Wolfie?” she purrs, a hushed exhale against my beard. Her lips are dangerously close as she presses her breasts into my chest. My sweet vixen, my china doll.
“Nothing,” I mumble, dropping her gaze and crushing my face into her neck. Her skin is butter-soft under my hands, the softness of her naked hips, the shiny scar on her left buttock, thin and silvery as a thread; I can never seem to touch enough of her, my hands are dumb and clumsy when she’s in them.
Her chin catches mine and our lips brush past each other, I can feel her breath on my cheek as we both keep moving, our faces dipping and turning like tandem kites, teeth and lips and tongue tips each almost touching, darting away just in time. We both know this dance will stir us into a frenzy. And it does.

My skin is flushed and prickled with desire when our lips finally crush together, softly sucking and releasing, her tongue slick along my teeth, my hands possessing her as my mind checks out and my whole world becomes her mouth. Our kiss splits and divides, her mouth moving to my neck, hot suction and sweet licks. Mine travels hungrily down her arm to lick her palm, sucking bites follow as I kiss her wrists; I am a chaste and tidy vampire.
She’s pulling me back with her, tumbling out of my lap and wrapping her legs around me. Profound in her ivory softness, paler still where the summer didn’t touch her months ago; those palest places are where my next kisses will land.

She arches so delicately and juts her soft breasts into my mouth. I rain a thousand kisses in a perfect cosmic swirl ending at the epicenter of her nipple, the tiny knot, that when bitten, makes her sigh then gasp, then sigh again. My course set, I kiss down her stomach, a slow, damp trail, pausing at her navel. She giggles and it breaks my concentration, my focus shifts and I’m irritatingly aware of the taut excitement between my legs. I growl into the softness of her stomach. She’s no longer coy, there’s no teasing here. The minx has lost her wiggle and wink and she opens for me, a breathless raincloud, warm and misty at her center.

I wish I could wait, wish I could breathe her in and watch how her thighs twitch at my touch, how the glossy cleft between her legs throbs and shudders as I exhale against her. I’m aching to wait, to pull away and make her cry out, to hear her beg and pet my hair and pout. I’m dying to savor the sheer intimacy, to relive every touch that’s led to that perfect moment, my chin hovering over the soft mound of her pelvis. But I can’t. But I don’t. Instead, I fall upon her with the reverence that only devotion can create, with the insanity that only lust can fuel. I fall upon her as she is: opened, trusting, quivering with anticipation and I give her the only gift I can fathom which might honor her vulnerable beauty.

I give her my kiss.

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