i am sitting close enough to smell the sweet, warm fragrance of your neck.
my skin touches yours as if my very existance depended on my continuous contact with you.
your brown shoulders make me want to bite you in the sweetest possible way.
the small, round whiteness of the plate on the floor between us is mirrored in the nightsky.
moonlight illuminates the slow-burning glow in us.
your hand, that only moments before delivered unspeakable pleasure to me, now lifts the tart from the plate
your lips, in competition with the fruit for supreme lusciousness, part.
i am taken with the simple erotic knowledge that my fingerprints mark the crust.
you look at me in that way you do, licking the shiny glaze from the strawberry.
i am jealous as it enters your mouth.
you close your eyes in the most unfathomably sensuous way.
you take a bite and i lean in for a strawberry-flavored kiss
reaching down, you pluck a blackberry from the top of the tart and as your sweetest blackberry eyes meet mine, you feed it to me.
your eyes dare me to take this further.
where the blackberry sat a moment ago, i scoop up the creme anglaise with my finger.
i know it breathes the scent of sugar cane and vanilla beans and i place my cream-covered finger into your mouth.
again, your dark eyes shine and then close.
your beautiful face glows with a glimpse of the same exquisite pleasure that shook you, body and soul, only minutes ago.
winning the dare, you draw me in.
i can no longer resist the powerful magnetism of you.
the fruit tart will have to wait.

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All writing contained in this website 1998-2005 by Betty A. Parker