Decalescent

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Soft sweeps of air feather over my fevered skin, the rotating blades above the bed providing sweet relief from the heat burning inside of me.

Half asleep, my fingers become yours, tracing tender lines along my flesh. Lightly I stroke in a steady counter-rhythm to the gentle swoosh-swoosh of the ceiling fan; up, down, and up again, every fingertip dip an erotic demand. My hands follow the path I will soon offer your mouth, and I imagine your lips, swollen from my kisses, trailing cool fire everywhere I touch.

Start here, I think, in silent demand, as I taste my own lips, wishing for yours.

My breaths grow ragged under my own ministrations: Β lips, cheek, collarbone, breast, nipple…

Lower.

Hotter.

More.

Start here, I think, as though I can will you to join me from where you are, to journey with me across the vast landscape from one pair of lips to another.

Start here, baby, I think, drifting now in drowsy arousal, stroking ever lower in a tantalizing tease.

Start here.

And please…

Pleeeaaaase…

Don’t stop.

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