When you wake.

I like to watch you, my King,
Sleep.
It’s when my lips, upper thighs,
And throat are most free.
Free from your hands,
Arms,
And legs.
Free to imagine,
How I’ll be consumed by you next.
Next, when you wake,
With your sweeter embrace,
Shaping the line that’s my side,
Grasping firmly,
Softly,
Molding against me like clay.

Your skin, sienna and copper mixed with hints of mint. Leaning back I kiss. And you insist while holding my neck, giving you full frame of my face. Do as you wish, but el Diablo you are not, mi amor. You are not cruel when you wake. You’re only sweet in this space. When soft moans echo, reverberate. In sync, then out. A synchronized, syncopated beat. The walls and their soft, electric hue, lilac blues surrounding this still room.

You slip gently inside,
You can’t not,
Though I lose breath,
When you separate, me,
Swollen and soft.
Too much sometimes,
When your finger,
Moves to our lefts,
Your hand slipping further across.
You flick,
Steady, gentle, and on course.

Holding us both in place, anchoring yourself to the highest point of my hip. All in an early morning, sleepy wake. Chills when you speak, and when you guide with no agenda in mind, only your addiction to me.

“Be still. Just let me feel you, my Queen,” you pressed against my right ear, speaking those words to me. Still I lie, meeting you halfway. To your left, when you wake.

Her perspective. Followed by, I’m up, ma.

Between Jerusalem and Mexico, a taboo love.