I could write novels about the way your lips traced mine
How your fingers tangled in my hair
How we didn't stop until we were both out of breath
Your hands dipped between each one of my ribs
The pads of your fingers pushing bruises into my hips
Hips moving seductively, slowly, yet without pause
Friction craved and needed and created
The boiling heat between us
Making us cross lines we never knew existed
But it was worth all that we risked.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
I could write novels about the way your lips traced mine
How your fingers tangled in my hair
How we didn't stop until we were both out of breath
Your hands dipped between each one of my ribs
The pads of your fingers pushing bruises into my hips
Hips moving seductively, slowly, yet without pause
Friction craved and needed and created
The boiling heat between us
Making us cross lines we never knew existed
But it was worth all that we risked.
Touching means more than ***
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