The devil is a tempting man
when his fingers trace my skin.
I should have known from the start
there's a price to pay in sin.
But I can't stop when his lips touch mine,
it feels like a hellish fire.
Every touch, every bite
I am burning with desire.

I crave his touch and his taste
when he holds my body closer.
He's the player, I'm the game
*** is the controller.
The taste of his sinful lips linger,
as does his nails against my flesh.
I truly wonder to myself,
when did he make me his?

His breath is the theme in our poetry,
my moans are the words that bleed onto the page.
His fingers are the gentle, precise cursive
that unlocks lust from it's paper cage.

Every space between the lines
were kisses from my neck to thighs.
His literature is for only me,
and I will be his poetry.