Selene Graves author
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Chattanooga summer wraps around you like a lover, inviting rituals and reckless abandon. The air buzzes with creativity as memories and sensual energy intertwine. Amidst warmth and whispers, fleeting connections spark, urging the heart to either risk vulnerability or bask in reflection, and the choice defines the magic of this slow, honeyed season.
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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.
The Osmosis of Flesh 