I think about your hands on my skin. In the dark, I can see the outlines of them in the glow from the small city of blinking lights across the room like futuristic candles in greens and blues. They flicker and dance across our skin and I lean down to lick your fingertips. My hands, and in the dark the road maps of scars are invisible, brush your rough cheeks and pull you down. My eyes close, and in the complete dark your mouth is perfect against mine, and it tastes red and rich and foggy, like the sweet things I crave. I breathe in deep the taste of you and give my hands permission to run down your body and pull a vanishing act with your clothes. In the dark, with my eyes closed, I am an invisible magician.
And there is no sound, save our panting breath and hushed desperate wishes. Things you don’t dare speak aloud in the light of day, but here, in quiet glowing attic rooms, they’re safe. And right now, it’s safe to look up at you and brush my lips across the sand-grain texture of your neck, to let my eyes close and writhe under the press of your fingertips over dark shadow lines that mark my skin. The taste of your skin fills my mouth, and lingers across my tongue like melted saccharine dreams.
And in the dark, the almost inaudible sound of skin brushing skin is a panted breath, "you and you and you and you-" and I need more, to feel more, to taste more, to be drunk on the elixir of your skin and the feel of your mouth. More, and more, and more. Your tongue making me arch when you taste my skin, arching toward you, lifting when you pull my hips up to grind against your skin.
It’s back to your hands, when I open my eyes, and against my hip your fingers press, creating shadows on my skin. Places where the flickering alien light doesn’t reach. Panting, panting, panting your name. And it sounds like "Yes."
Dom came over and spent the weekend while I packed and moved. I've always found him very very sexy.