Crave

I enter the bedroom, lit only by a sliver of light peeking through a misaligned shade and I am frozen by the sight of you, a dark blanket made of night slung over your hips and slipped off your shoulder to reveal the glowing curve of your breast and the hint of a pebbled edge…

I am transfixed by you, by it, but this temptation, this taunt. Caught between a puritanical desire to cover you up and an equally more prurient pull to slip the blanket further, that inky edge that clings almost fruitlessly to the point of this nipple I have loved and laved and held in my teeth and my fingertips; this most precious and sensitive, yielding and sustaining and substantive nipple.

I crave.

The cup of tea in my hand grows hot in my palm. I had picked the mug up not by the handle, expecting to quickly put it down after entering our room, and as the heat starts to prickle my skin my mind’s eye is assaulted by overlaid and dizzying images of the times we have slid and wanted and strained and touched and cleaved and lusted and intertwined, wrecked, torn, held, limned, battled surrendered breathed for, and on, and in, and with each other—

You turn and all is hidden again. I put my tea down. My hand cools, and for a moment, I am released.