Il dort avec moi.

A black room, yet I feel completely exposed.

I feel his hands on me. My stomach. My hips. My thighs. The effect is incendiary. I quiver at his touch. His soft palms stretch the taught skin. The lips that kiss words in my ears prickle and blur my bones. He is everywhere.

I feel soft underneath him. This is aberrant.

His fingers grip the insides of my thighs. A gasp for the both of us. I am a feather.

“My darling girl,” he murmurs. His voice buzzes against my collar bone. “All mine, my darling girl.”

I cannot express in words how much I love. So he does it for me; with every stroke, with every kiss, with every breath.

Hands pushing and pulling apart. His locks between the creases of my fingers. Cafuné. I bring him to me. I kiss him zealously. His mouth is firm but patient.

And when he parts from me, we exhale.