Tell me how it feels.

Is it a lightning spiral? A slow burn? A tingling waterfall of riverflow sparked heat, dropping off a high ledge behind your belly button, roaring its thundering pulse in a surging froth of arousal?

Is it a prickling flush? A blood-surge sunburn, pinkening from within, giving away your want in red-blush fire?

Does it sear your skin? Sharpen your nerve endings?

Where does it begin?

Is it a dormant star, burning always but bursting sharp in precipitant sparking firefall across your chest? A coiled explosion tightening hot through your abdomen?

Is it lava, surging molten up your spine, overflowing from the top and dripping down your torso in geothermic magma, pooling anthracitic in the turgid ache between your thighs? Or a slow pink-orange sunrise glow, sudden as morning, stroking its slow-warming caress up from your toes?

Is it an ember?
A hearth fire?
A conflagration?

The heat of your arousal… Does it scald?

Sear?
Melt?

What does it feel like?

Tell me.

It’s not necessary to tell me that you’re hot. I can see the swell and pulse, feel the telltale tremor, hear the hitched-breath expulsion of too-long-held air escaping your lungs.

You don’t need to tell me that you want me. I can see it in the banked ash of your dilated pupils, feel it in the purple flush of drawn-tight distention, taste it in the desperate need rolling hot off your skin in waves.

Those things, I already know.

What I don’t know, is how it feels.

Tell me how it feels.

And maybe…

Just maybe…

You’ll get to feel more (of me).

* * * * * * *

He tells.

Tongue thick against teeth, the slow-stutter syllables resonate through the midnight dark as his mouth shapes itself around words he’d be unable to speak anywhere else but here.

It’s difficult, this telling.  But tell he does.

Because her smile is a promise he’s unwilling to break.