You arrive the way dusk does---
quietly, as if the air had been saving a secret for you.
The room inhales. So do you.
There is a rope of moonlight slung across the ceiling,
loose, deliberate, knowing exactly how much give you like.
It does not bind; it persuades.
You feel it at your wrists only because you’re thinking about it.
Isn’t that the trick?
Butterflies riot behind your ribs,
their wings stained with nectar and mischief.
They’ve been drinking again---
from the curve of a shadow,
from the warmth pooled just out of reach.
You pretend not to notice.
They pretend not to spill.
Temptation leans close,
smelling faintly of citrus and heat.
It doesn’t touch---
it waits, smiling,
as if asking: Are you sure you don’t want closer?
Every glance is a sip.
Every pause, an invitation folded into silk.
The rope tightens only when you breathe wrong,
loosens when you smile like you know exactly what you’re doing.
Do you? Or are you enjoying the uncertainty a little too much?
The butterflies settle, then scatter again,
tracing constellations under your skin.
You feel chosen.
You feel undone in the most careful way.
Somewhere between wanting and waiting,
desire hums---low, electric, patient.
It doesn’t rush you.
It knows you’ll come.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 5:43 PM UTC
You arrive the way dusk does---
quietly, as if the air had been saving a secret for you.
The room inhales. So do you.
There is a rope of moonlight slung across the ceiling,
loose, deliberate, knowing exactly how much give you like.
It does not bind; it persuades.
You feel it at your wrists only because you’re thinking about it.
Isn’t that the trick?
Butterflies riot behind your ribs,
their wings stained with nectar and mischief.
They’ve been drinking again---
from the curve of a shadow,
from the warmth pooled just out of reach.
You pretend not to notice.
They pretend not to spill.
Temptation leans close,
smelling faintly of citrus and heat.
It doesn’t touch---
it waits, smiling,
as if asking: Are you sure you don’t want closer?
Every glance is a sip.
Every pause, an invitation folded into silk.
The rope tightens only when you breathe wrong,
loosens when you smile like you know exactly what you’re doing.
Do you? Or are you enjoying the uncertainty a little too much?
The butterflies settle, then scatter again,
tracing constellations under your skin.
You feel chosen.
You feel undone in the most careful way.
Somewhere between wanting and waiting,
desire hums---low, electric, patient.
It doesn’t rush you.
It knows you’ll come.
The only remotely sensual piece I have lol.
If you know me irl, no you don't and you didn't see this.
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