The heat pressed down on my skin like your hands once did—
slow, steady, unforgettable.
My mouth was dry, my body aching—
but it wasn’t water I needed.
It was you.
The Strip pulsed around us—
neon lights flashing, voices rising,
solicitors reaching from every side.
But the moment your fingers found mine,
the chaos faded.
You made me feel safe in a place built to make people forget.
The feathered girls brushed past like temptation,
the phony cops played their parts with easy charm.
They moved through the crowd like they owned it—
but none of them saw me.
Not like you did.
Not with that quiet intensity,
not with the calm in your touch
that steadied everything inside me.
You held me close like the night belonged to us.
Your eyes found mine
like you already knew how the rest of it would go—
how the Strip would disappear,
how the only lights that mattered
would be the ones reflecting off your skin.
Even before you touched me,
my body was already aching for you.
But it wasn’t just want.
It was the way you looked at me
like I was seen.
Known.
Wanted in every way.
A man slept in the gutter like the city had swallowed him whole.
A woman begged, her eyes rehearsed.
A barefoot soul wandered through the noise,
forgotten.
Everything around us was dressed in false light—
but you,
you were the truth beneath it all.
And when we were finally alone,
you didn’t just undress me—
you unraveled me.
Soft at first,
then with the kind of hunger
that left me breathless.
You touched me like I was something sacred,
like you knew every part of me
deserved to be remembered.
I think about that night more than I should.
How you whispered things
that still echo in places I keep hidden.
How your mouth moved like prayer across my skin.
How you made me forget
every version of myself that came before.
People talk about Vegas
like it’s unforgettable—
but nothing there ever touched me
like you did.
And sometimes,
when the world feels too loud again,
I close my eyes
and return to that night—
not to the Strip,
but to you.
