Raindrops fall on the roof
the way your hands touch my skin.
Your fingertips, light and dragging,
become more insistent,
speaking of the storm about to come.
I feel your palms
heavy on my shoulders.
The tiny hairs on my nape
stand straight up
in response to your thumbs.
Your lips and tongue taste
the one vertebrae
that sticks out at the base of my neck
soft as wind through the grass,
but my insides quiver
through the thunder you create.
When your hands come around to my sides
my stomach shivers,
rippling because your nails tickle
before they dig into my curves.
I gasp through the sensation,
unable to otherwise move with my body in shock.
Tingling pleasure courses up and down beneath my skin
my body as charged as the air
when the clouds have rolled in
but the lightning has yet to strike.