What I do know is that when you admit your own hunger, I feel an unfurling of low, dark, energy, a current that makes me want to grab you by the throat.

It puts me in a place where my control over the wolf is barbwire thin.

Do you believe in the beauty of rain?

Do you read books not to distract you from the world, but because it makes the world even more wondrous?

Do unexpected kisses make you shiver in delight?

Do you want to spend an evening naming your favorite villains while eating chocolate ice cream?

Do you like leather and lace?

Do you like to laugh while being naughty, and does being naughty make you laugh?

(does the word naughty make you laugh?)

Do thorns make you turn away, or will you pluck the rose despite the sting?

there is a beauty to a curve that
doesn’t quite end, it just
becomes another curve
like a smile
or silk
like a kimono showing
a bared shoulder
is a curve
you
are a curve

I crack nails on stone to find rich soil
mold clay into flesh
and flesh into place
heat my hands between your thighs
so I can temper skin
into marble

a smooth
perfect
cage

I set chisel to bone
and wait for

“Please.”
lean into it
shell cracked, lines split
topology and braille

I never loved you so much as when your imperfections were mine to trace.

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.

You are right. For me, thinking too much of you is dangerous.

It always has been.

I suspect it always will be.

I love to tease: threading ideas, promised edges sharp enough to draw blood.

For me, it’s like a cat sharpening her claws.

Or a wolf sharpening his teeth.

There is a depth to the hunger I have for you.

Or to be more honest…there _isn’t_ a depth. Because that implies I know the distance we have to fall. And what makes you so dangerous is that I don’t think there is a bottom.

You’re the other part of the blade.

With others, I want to tear them apart.

With you, I want to tear you apart. And then I want to put you back together and do it again.

And again.

And again.

And that scares me.

Because there is no plateau to the kind of hunger I harbor with you. There is just falling.

And I want that. I want you sitting on the edge of my desk in a skirt and nothing underneath. I want to bite my way up the inside of your leg. Not sharp bites. But wolf ones, the kind that are half way between nibble and flesh tearing. I want to take my time. Until I can feel you shivering.

I know that shiver. I know the way it starts inside of you, rising until you can’t stop it.

It’s like a dinner bell for me.

time is measured observation
I mark mine by your breath
unbidden or coaxed
in ease or labored
promised or stolen

I count them all.

I want it simple.

A place.

A word.

And you.

I miss the purity of meaning. The lack of pretense. 

My hand curled around your throat wasn’t a step towards something. It wasn’t a reminder.

It was just my hand at your throat feeling you breath. Swallow.  Offer.

I miss the clarity of the moment. No mysteries to unwind, no conceits to shrug away.

You were here because it’s where you wanted to be.

And I took you in because I not-so-secretly loved your need for surrender.

I still do.

it is no terrible act
when you fit so well
in the cradle
of my fist

it is no terrible word
the one that starts
with me
and ends with you
(on your knees)

it is no terrible promise
rope, a bed, and you
bared
wet
mine.

it is no terrible price
we pay
to have it

but the hunger I harbor
for you
is terrible
and great
and smolders
like the acts, the words, the promises, and the price.