Erotic Thoughts

My thighs open like summer fruit when you’re near. Soft. Warm. Overflowing. You touch me and my body melts into something you could eat with your hands. I drip slow and golden down your fingers, down your wrist, down your hunger. Call it nectar. Call it sin. Call it dessert. Just don’t stop.

I drip for you like honey warmed by a summer sun. Slow, golden, dangerously sweet. Your fingers slide through the softness of me and come out tasting like fruit that should’ve never been touched but begged to be bitten. Call it nectar. Call it desire. Call it what happens when a woman opens and doesn’t close.

I want the kind of kiss that ruins my mascara and my morals. The kind where your hands don’t ask permission — they take it. Teeth grazing. Breath breaking. Bodies begging before words ever do. I want to leave the room glowing, trembling, legs shaking like prayer and sin made the same thing.