by Quotely 28
She doesn’t walk—
she glides like temptation dressed in skin,
each step a promise
that something sacred is about to sin.
Her body isn’t just seen—
it’s felt.
In the chest.
In the gut.
In places where logic drowns and hunger speaks.
The dip of her collarbone—
a map to places I’ve only visited
in dreams that left my mouth dry
and my soul awake.
Her breasts—
not merely soft, but defiant,
like full moons daring me
to touch what I revere.
And when I do,
the world collapses into the space between our breaths.
She unbuttons her blouse
like peeling back the sky—
revealing constellations only my hands know,
stars that spark
every time I trace my fingers across her skin.
Her stomach, her waist—
my lips memorize them in slow motion.
Not because I have to,
but because rushing would be a sin.
Her thighs open not like doors,
but like gates to something holy—
and I kneel,
not to pray,
but to worship what makes her divine.
She moans—
and the night folds inward.
She grips the sheets—
and the moon hides behind clouds
as if it, too, can’t handle her.
There is a way she looks at me
when we’re nothing but skin and fire—
eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted,
and I know she’s not just letting me in…
she’s devouring me slowly,
without mercy,
without apology.
Her body is war and peace—
a battlefield of aching need,
and a temple where I find
everything I didn’t know I was missing.
And when it’s over,
when the storm calms
and sweat cools on trembling skin,
she turns to me with a quiet smile,
pulls me closer,
and starts it all again—
because with her,
desire never sleeps,
and the night is never long enough.