Your breath, molten silk,
spills across my throat,
whispering hunger into my skin.

Fingertips trace constellations,
mapping the arch of my back,
the swell of my hips,
the trembling hush between us.

We are wildfire,
slow-burning, slow-building,
embers igniting,
but never consuming.

Your mouth—
a prayer, a plea, a promise—
follows the line of my pulse,
tasting the ache that shivers there.

I open to you,
like night opens to stars,
like tides surrender to the moon,
like silk parts for fire.

You press,
the first tease of entry,
thick with heat, with longing,
and my body sings.

We rise,
wave after wave,
breath tangling, hands clenching,
closer, closer—

but just before the stars collapse,
you retreat,
pulling me back from the edge,
denying the fall,
keeping me lost in the wanting.

Again, you return,
slow, deep, infinite,
and I unravel beneath you.
My nails press into your back,
hips rising, legs trembling,
pleading for the plunge—

but again, you slip away,
leaving me open, throbbing,
caught in the exquisite torment
of almost.

And again.

First wave swells—
a soft rush,
curling through my belly,
tightening—
and then, you pull away,
leaving me gasping
in the quiet between.
I gasp,
a rush of emptiness sharp, aching,
my body a tide still reaching for the shore,
begging for what it cannot have.

A second wave rises,
slower, deeper,
the tension winding tight—
you move again,
pressing, filling—
then vanishes,
laughter dark in your throat,
Your lips tracing fire
along my neck.
I tighten around you,
as if I could hold you inside,
as if I could trap pleasure itself
before it slips through my grasp.

A third—
stronger now, sharper—
breath ragged,
hips rising,
desperate for more—
but you are the storm,
and I am the shore,
and you are not yet ready
to let the sea break.
Your mouth follows where your body was,
lips pressing to the pulse between my thighs,
soothing the ache your absence left behind.

Fourth,
each stroke, each retreat,
a lesson in patience,
a prayer in waiting,
a wildfire spreading,
consuming,
unrelenting.
I whisper your name,
but it comes out as something raw,
a prayer, a plea, a demand,
a sound not meant for language,
but for bodies that know only need.

Wave number five starts building.
I writhe beneath you,
hips arching, thighs trembling,
dragging you closer,
desperate to erase the space between us.

Six.
You press into me again,
just enough, just barely,
and I shatter before I can even fall.
You pause.

Wave seven.
My body sings,
each nerve a taut wire,
buzzing, waiting, wanting.
You hold me back.

Wave eight is slowly rising.
You hold my face between your hands,
thumbs tracing my lips,
watching my eyes darken with hunger,
watching my mouth part with unspoken need.

Nine.
I swear I can feel your heartbeat inside me,
a steady, aching drum,
matching the rhythm of my own.

Ten waves,
lost in rhythm,
in rise and fall,
in a dance older than time.
Your name spills from my lips,
not as speech,
but as sound, as sensation,
as surrender.

Eleven.
I clutch at your back,
fingertips pressing crescent moons into your skin,
marking you, branding you,
claiming you in the only way I can.

Twelve.
You move, just barely,
a slow, teasing pulse,
giving me a taste of what’s to come,
then pulling away.

Thirteen.
I am fire and ice,
burning, freezing,
losing myself in the space between pleasure and pain.

Fourteen.
You whisper against my ear,
words I don’t understand,
but they are not meant for my mind.
They are meant for my body,
for the way I tighten in response,
for the way I tremble at the sound.

Fifteen waves,
and I am nothing but sensation,
raw and reaching,
lost in slipstream,
in the slow climb,
in the knowing hands
that build and steal,
that give and take—
your hands hold my hips still,
controlling me, guiding me,
keeping me exactly where you want me—
where I am neither fulfilled nor free.

Sixteen.
I plead, I beg,
but you only smile,
watching me unravel—
a thread pulled loose,
a flame flickering wild,
caught between agony and bliss,
your name slipping from my lips
like a prayer unanswered,
while you pause.

Seventeen.
My body is molten now,
liquid, soft, open,
ready to be shaped by your touch—
a vessel of longing,
a tide pulled by your gravity,
melting into the rhythm of your hands,
waiting, aching, undone.

Eighteen,
You enter me again,
slow, deep, careful,
stretching me open like the petals of a flower.
Breathless, trembling,
a hymn sung in whispers,
a sacred withholding,
a sacred giving.
Your name—the only prayer I know.

Nineteen.
I grip the sheets,
clawing at the fabric,
clawing at the pleasure I cannot yet have.

Twenty.
We hover at the brink,
a breath away from breaking—
then, again, you retreat.

Twenty-One.
I whimper.
It is not sound, but surrender—
a soft, shivering exhale,
a breath caught between need and restraint.
It rises like the tide, swelling, aching,
a whisper of longing that crests on the edge of control.
You retreat,
a tremor dissolving into the hush of anticipation.
A plea unspoken.
A sigh undone.
A moment suspended between wanting and yielding.

Twenty-Two.
You kiss me,
mouth firm, deep,
as if the kiss alone
could fill the ache of your absence.
Another eternity passes.

Twenty-three,
one more, and I will shatter—
one more, and I will fall—
but still, you hold me
on the precipice of breaking,
on the edge of surrender.
My body knows nothing but need.
I am pure hunger, pure sensation,
reduced to nothing but the pulse of desire,
that grows wild when you pause.

Twenty-Four.
I almost break beneath you,
again and again,
but never completely.

Twenty-five—
and I am shaking,
boneless, molten,
my skin fever-hot,
my breath lost in your mouth,
your fingers, your hands,
your weight pressing, shifting,
holding me still
when all I want is to move,
to take,
to claim.

Twenty-six—
Your tongue glides over skin,
Your teeth grazing,
a sharp spark,
a jolt of light shot through my veins,
a plea caught in my throat.
But you slow down.

Twenty-seven—
you know my pulse,
how it stutters, how it races,
where it pounds hardest—
you linger there, lips and breath
writing secrets on my skin.

Twenty-eight—
a deep, rolling quake,
your hips pressing slow,
so slow—
and then pulling back,
dragging me back into need,
back into burning.

Twenty-nine—
Your hands hold me open,
a deliberate ache,
a stretch, a tension,
the weight of waiting,
of wanting,
of almost—but not yet.

Thirty—
you whisper something low,
dark, delicious,
and it coils inside me,
a velvet tether,
tying me to this moment,
to you,
to the next wave crashing through.

Thirty-one—
I arch, I writhe,
I beg, but you are patient,
You are cruel in the way
that makes my body sing.

Thirty-two—
I feel it everywhere now,
the heat, the ache,
the heavy pull in my belly,
the tremor in my thighs,
the fire licking at my spine.

Thirty-three—
you let me have just a taste,
just enough,
just a flicker of relief,
before you steal it again,
laughing against my throat.

Thirty-four—
your breath at my ear,
your hands gripping tighter,
your rhythm changing,
deepening,
turning slow torture
into something desperate,
something fierce.

Thirty-five—
the pleasure coils tighter,
pulling at every nerve,
every muscle,
every inch of me caught
between surrender and
something even deeper.

Thirty-six—
I am unraveling,
I am lost,
I am burning alive
in the space between
your thrusts,
your kisses,
your wicked, endless knowing.

Thirty-seven—
I am nothing but touch,
nothing but hunger,
nothing but the soft,
fierce rise of pleasure
that will not stop,
will not let me go.

Thirty-eight—
the tension shatters,
a raw, deep pulse
rocking through me,
turning my body to stars,
to sound,
to sensation that hums
at the edge of infinity.

Thirty-nine—
you do not stop.
You do not let me drift down.
You take me higher,
pulling me through wave after wave,
through the haze,
climbing again.

Forty,
You push inside once more,
slow, steady, infinite.
And this time, we do not stop.
you pull me back,
holding me there,
in the exquisite torture of restraint,
teaching me how to crave,
how to ache,
how to let pleasure become eternity.

We are endless.
We are gods playing in flesh.

Every thrust a hymn,
every retreat a lesson in patience,
every moment of denial
a sculptor shaping bliss into devotion.

I lost count of time,
lost myself in your rhythm,
in the slow unraveling
of body into energy,
of hunger into light,
of us into something vast and divine.

At the brink of breaking,
just as love itself
pushes through the veil,
we still—
breathless, trembling, open—

and the universe sighs,
cradling us
in the hands of something
greater than release.

We linger at the edge,
neither falling nor pulling away,
but hovering in that sacred place,
where pleasure is prayer,
where want is worship,
where time dissolves
and bodies become light.

This is not climax.
This is something greater.

We do not fall.
We ascend.

OneLove