Words from a Dishonest Poet

Heat; Touch; Breath

She softly lifted her hand up to his cheek, cupping it slightly to properly feel him. Touch him. Let the heat of his soft face spread onto her pale hands, warming her at contact. His cheek was like a flame. The swelter of human touch felt almost as if it was moving, flickering, but growing.

She moved a step closer. Her eyes moved, too. Trailing from his eyes, down to his chest. With her other hand, she placed it below his neck, lightly trailing her fingertips along his collarbone. Another inch she moved closer, tilting her head into his neck. Her breath infected him. It was almost too much. The delicateness at which she was moving was starting to feel like a tease. He wanted to give her complete control, complete power over him. Her spell had taken over his mind, now it was about to take over his body. And he had no regrets. But now she was mocking him, teasing him. His skin was boiling, aching for more. He wanted so. Much. More.

She was making him blush. Making his knees weak. Her touch was still floating over him. Caressing everything he had. But nowhere that would send him over, just keep him on his tiptoes on the edge of the cliff.

Her lips looked so soft, so red, so perfect. They felt even better. She placed them cautiously. Then firmly. Then wet. She made his world spin as she moved up to his jaw. Nibbling at his bottom lip. He wanted to cave in to her. Push back. Turn the nibbling into devouring. Kiss her back. Swallow her tongue. But the way she danced on his flesh was something he never knew he could feel. It made something in the pit of his stomach turn, like a river flowing downstream. He didn't want to change it. He trusted her.