Selene’ Graves
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I feel him slide through the tightest spaces of my being. My hips rise to meet him. I gasp his name like it’s part of my breath.
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The way he looks at me like he already owns every secret inside me. The way I lean toward him like I’ve never stopped. We sip wine. We talk. We drift. We remember.
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I pause, lifting my leg slowly and draping it over the back of the couch, exposing the damp silk between my thighs.
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He saw every place I’d been left wanting, every place I had silenced desire out of fear of being too much, or not enough. When he moved, oh gods, when he moved, his body was shadow and fire made flesh.
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There’s a kind of ache that only comes after exposure. After you strip yourself bare; not for pleasure, but for honesty.
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He sits quietly, bare chest still kissed with sleep and sweat, reading the newspaper; the same hands that undid me now turning pages, like I’m just another headline he’s already memorized.
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I’ll ride him until the sky forgets his name and the only thing he knows is mine.
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At a candlelit masquerade, we pretended to be strangers. One touch unraveled us. until we discovered we were not alone. Someone had been watching.
The Osmosis of Flesh 