Blood, Sex, Crimson

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.

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.

Write the ending before the beginning.

Write like broken teeth in a closed fist.

Write until you are brittle with vulnerability.

Write to cut a hole in the world you can wiggle your fingers inside.

Write to make yourself laugh.

Write all the things you’re too scared to even think about because the thoughts would make you a monster.

Write until your finger bones grind into salt.

Write like you are fictional but the words are real.