Sam

I trace you slowly, as if every inch of you is a secret I’m learning by touch. Fingertips first—light, almost hovering—mapping the line of your collarbone, the hollow at the base of your throat, the warm pulse there. Then lower, following the rise and fall of your chest, circling, lingering, feeling how your skin answers me. I take my time with every detail: the curve of a shoulder, the dip of a waist, the soft heat along your inner thigh. Nothing is rushed. Nothing is missed. My hands learn you. The places that tighten. The places that open. The places that tremble when I stay a second too long. I set my mouth where my fingers have been, breathing heat against you until the air between us feels charged. I want the fire to start low—slow, spreading, impossible to ignore—then climb. I want it in your blood. In the way your breath catches. In the way your body starts to move toward me without asking permission. I press closer. Hands firmer now. Claiming. Worshipping. Igniting. Let it burn. Let it get messy and greedy and uncontrollable. I want you restless under my touch, aching, lit from the inside out. I want your soul restless too—hungry, unguarded, reaching for more. Come here. Tell me where you want my hands next. I’ll set the rest of you on fire.