“Go to bed.” He repeated, aching to look away from the mountain of paperwork on his desk, and hoping she would be pouting down at him. “I won’t tell you again.” He focused his eyes on the documents and tried to ignore the familiar fingers that had found his neck.
“I’m not tired.” He kept his eyes down, but his body had other ideas. She abandoned his neck and decided to perch herself on the desk in front of him, her legs pushing his papers on the floor, and calling loudly for his attention.
“Go to bed.” She slowly pulled the hem of her skirt higher. “Now.”
“You said you wouldn’t tell me again.” He tore his eyes from her rising skirt, and suppressed a smirk, as he was greeted by her mischievous smile. “But you did.” His hands could no longer resist, meeting the softness of her thighs, feeling her shiver beneath his touch.
“Bed.” There was silence for a moment, as he slipped his fingers inside her underwear, and then, a soft sigh left her lips. “Now.” There was no smart reply this time, as his touch left her mute, beyond a melody of moans that soon became sighs. “Or you’ll be punished.” She leaned into his touch, his paperwork abandoned, as he quickened his pace, drawing more desire filled moans from her lips. They kissed, her cries of pleasure muffled as he captured her mouth. “Bed.” He felt her tighten around his fingers, she pulled him closer, begging and pleading in wordless whines and sighs as her body surrendered to him. “Now.”
She fell against him, exhausted but fulfilled, as he gently kissed her neck, enjoying her gentle purrs of satisfaction.
I went shopping for silk,
imagining myself as a mistress,
who goes hiking in the valleys of Los Angeles,
while waiting for her forbidden fruit to find some time,
to do dastardly deeds on the sheets his wife dutifully washes.
There is no wife,
I’m going straight,
in a sense,
though I remain the unfriendly, unapproachable neighbourhood bisexual you’ve come to love and loath in equal measure.
I like the adventure,
and the drama,
shopping for silk stockings,
lazing in lingerie,
finding his contact name,
in the fitting room,
asking myself if he might fancy a snapshot,
of my provocative purchases.
I want to be wayward and irresistible,
imagining a rendezvous,
with cider in champagne glasses,
gazing at a human form of heaven.
He is enough adventure for me.
You are a song,
I sometimes hear,
in the back of my mind,
when I am away with the fairies.
I called you last night,
awaking with the memory of you,
for what I became,
after we parted ways,
all the ways I was so different,
and the ways I’d stayed the same.
I think that maybe I’ve been driven mad,
by days that became weeks,
weeks that went on far too long,
but then I see you,
and I love you,
in a languishing,
and I realise that I was always a little bit mad.
I had to be,
give my mind, entirely, to you.
He found himself,
packing his soul into so many boxes,
that he left by my door,
every time he came to call,
hoping that one day,
Id invite him,
and his baggage in.
He found himself,
wishing I’d write his name,
a million ways,
for the rest of my days,
when I told him,
I was the kind of girl,
that wasn’t going to be around for long.
My house was rented,
my home was wherever I ended up,
my heart knows it wants to belong to someone,
but can never decide who is worthy.
I never planned to be alive,
beyond twenty five,
but something about him,
soothes my lust for living in heaven.
Something about him,
makes me want to stay.
sending me a dream,
to tell me,
danger is over,
if that is the path I choose.
You wear nine hearts on your sleeve,
all around your wrists,
inside each one.
I watch you,
from the window,
sweet on the sill,
trying to tempt me outside,
where blue skies lie.
out of nowhere,
if you are a crocodile,
barely above water.
I wonder if you’ll tear me apart,
or if you will be tender,
life is nothing,
if not an adventure.
We are close to a kiss,
on opposing sides of glass.
I count the hearts on your sleeve,
and the beats of my own.