In a desert, the dry heat necessitates minimal clothing: a robe, to meet modesty’s needs.
The person behind is less interested in modesty.
You close your eyes when his hands find their way to your hips beneath the robe. His touch is remarkably cool despite the heat, and where his fingers trail your flank, following the lines of your body to the back of your thighs, the shivers that follow are not from the cooling desert air.
He is patient. His touch is slow, running the up the length of your spine to slip the robe from your shoulders; his breath is warm, almost hot against the back of your neck; hands firmly grip your waist to pull you back into his arms before finding the front of your thighs, fingers spread as they slip between, moving up to the apex – brushing against your own heat ever so lightly – before drifting to your stomach, your breasts, palms pressing against your nipples.
Teeth graze your throat, then lips, burning, as if to replace the setting sun.
Bared skin is too strong a temptation. He turns you to face him, fingers winding their way through your hair, lips at the hollow of your throat. Shoulder. Chest. Soft, light, kisses.
Lips find your own, parted, hungry. Lower again, his hair brushing your skin as he traces your breast, lost in the inviting warmth of your skin, the promise it holds. He catches your nipple between his lips, gently tugging and he is on his knees, following a path lower.
You lean against the marble column to your left, needing the support as he finds your hips with his mouth. He is hungry, but patient, small light bites to the delta between hips and thighs, an intimate valley he dares without hesitation, his hand guiding your leg over his shoulder as he buries his face deeply between your thighs.
Just as the sun slips completely behind the horizon, leaving only darkness. The sound of your breathing. And him.