I recommend reading Bill’s poem, The Sensual Warmth of Winter first, and then coming back and reading mine. His inspired mine, after all.
On a cold winter’s evening, snow piling against the door and on the window panes, crystals of ice crawling slowly inward. But I’m here in the warmth of the cabin, my hands outstretched towards the flames of the hearth, my toes buried in the thick softness of the rug. A shift in the air behind me and I feel your arms wrap around me. Together we sway to our own music, your hips to mine, your chin on my shoulder. I love you.
Your lips brush my neck and a shudder spreads. Turning in your arms I thread mine around behind your head, drawing you closer until our mouths meet. My tongue wraps about yours, sliding and tasting, wrestling but both winning. Your hand slips up my dress and caresses my breast, my nipple, instantly hard and sensitive. I moan into your mouth. Smiling you pull back and lift my dress from my body then finding me completely naked beneath you lower me to the floor as the flames leap and dance beside us.
Lying beside me you look at my full body, and I’m aching for your touch. Reaching across, I take your hand and place it on my hip, run it down my thigh. Humming in the back of your throat, you squeeze me and run your fingers back up lazily. But I want the fire and the passion that I know you’re holding back. I raise my knee and spread my legs, lifting my hips to meet your hand that’s making its way ever upward.
Kissing my throat, running your tongue along my pulse, I’m throbbing for you. And when your fingers brush my lips I gasp and shudder again. Please. One word, as our eyes meet. And without a word, though I can see heat in your black irises, you push your fingers inside me and damn I’m absolutely soaking wet, gushing for you, my eyelids fluttering and my eyes rolling back. Fuck yes.
Finding our rhythm is easy and natural as your fingers stroke in and out, in and out and you’re nipping my earlobe and whispering wicked things there as I gasp and pant and curse and beg. But I want to feel your skin on mine, so somehow my own fingers climb up your shirt and pull off your pants and your fingers are still inside me but I climb on top of you and grind myself there, until we are both whimpering and pleading and shouting in starts and exclamations. Our bodies are slick with sweat and want and need, oh how I love you.
Then for just a moment we both grow still before calling out our joyous rapture, I collapse and your grip loosens and the fire crackles beside us, casting flickering shadows across our damp skin and the snow continues to pile against the door outside.
tara caribou | ©️2018