Your lips, so soft and sweet, the ruddy pink color of pleasure, brush barely against mine like the velvet wings on cupid’s back. My own swell and part, desperate for capture, hungry for roughness and fervor, but resigned to the delicious docility of this, my good day kiss.
As you press and slip your wet, warm tongue between my teeth, to mimic a sultry slow dance within my mouth, my resolve weakens quickly. You steal the breath from my lungs with the turbid tempo you create, drawing a single whimper from within.
Your silky but scratchy beard caresses my skin, and reminds me of the sensations it creates as it skims over the delicate surface of my neck and decolletage, or that secret spot on my shoulder that only you know, or the sensitive points of my heavy breasts, where you love to tease and taunt.
Your long, slender fingers brush lightly down the valley of my lower back, then over the luscious curve of my ample tush, before grabbing your handful and pulling me flush against you so that I might feel the decadent effect of my good day kiss, on you.
Angled and meshed, our bodies meet so perfectly, but I lower from my tip toes, to avoid the dampening between my quivering thighs. It is too late, and I feel my arousal in full heat, dripping slowly over my folds and escaping to the fabric below.
I mindlessly twirl my fingers in the soft, short hair at the nape of your neck, anxious to lengthen this moment, pause time so that I might lap up the attention served to me in this intoxicating vessel that is as glorious to taste as it is to feel.
Your slow withdraw tells me I cannot, so I open my eyes to gaze into the clear, lake water green of your eyes, memorizing the lust I find there, so that I may draw from this memory when it is absent in the future. When my good day kiss is missed.