The wild long battling stare of those eyes, the raspberry sweet sound, but as cold as ice.
The melting slow touch of those fingers through the curves of a heated core, the screams of the want, the madness so gore.
The parallel running lines of the neck with the fingertips, the lenient little peck, the mental precipitation of every little speck.
The right amount of assurance to have it when you want, where you want, so much, like the favorite cushions pinned to the bed as such.
The wicked little smile, the smirk of the Satan, the look, the touch, the last felt breath, the one left slight unshaken
Yearning the same, yet, and more in distress, lying right where you left the undone in a heated mess.