More

These words don't belong to me, but I keep them nonetheless. I pressed her to ask, to beg, to need.

She made it into a mantra.

—

More.

I say the word and invoke a hymn to my beauty.

More.

It's a simple hymn that resonates within you.

More.

It's the sound of your hand on my skin tracing my voluptuous cuving hips.

More.

It's the cold air as it hits the places on my thighs where you've left traces of kisses and essences.

More.

It's the time, waiting to exhale, when you taste me…first with your yes…then with your open lips.

More.

I want More.

It's the kindest cut, the one closest to the choice between staying or leaving.

I want More.

I whisper it and you come closer still, to hear the words behind the sound.

I want More.

You are the love sleuth and you know this petit mort is hardwired on both our DNA.

I want More.

I wait for More.

I expect More.

More.

More is my hunger I gift to you.

More.

More is a man so profoundly male that the need for more is merely an invitation, not a threat.

I want More.

So much, that I can already taste it.

I want More.

So much that my cells are already bathing in it.

I am More.
~L