Sweet Nothings/Nothing Sweet

When I whisper
"sweet nothings"
in your ear
there will be
nothing
"sweet"
about it.

It will be
hot-breathed,
heated,
appetence and ache,
all teeth and tongue,
while nipping at your neck.

There will be
low hums
and
gritty moans
sung
from the recesses
of my soul
into the
riveting depths
of yours.

There will be hair pulled,
breath matched and caught,
while fingernails
run aching paths
down arching backs.

I'll talk of
fucking
on the hood
of my warm car
in the winter sunlight
by the lake,
our breath
coming
in rapid
puffs of white,
(heat from our lungs
doing combat with the crisp air)
muscles taut and bodies hot,
as we remove
only
the pieces of our clothing
necessary
to make this work
without
freezing to death.

I'll suggest,
with my hand on your fly,
my tongue in your ear,
that you let me
tie
You
(your turn ..... This time)
blindfolded
to the kitchen chair;
persuading you
with my touch
to utter your breathless
"YES."
Urging you to
imagine
how it feels
when I
stealthy and silent
leave a room
just
long enough
for you to wonder
if I've abandoned you;
letting you know
that i might return
right before worry does,
with ice between my parted lips
to run across
your tensed muscles,
as you buck up to meet me.

I'll render for you
in painterly tones
the way your skin tastes
after a long night together,
the scent of you
at twilight,
the weight and supple strength
of you tangled up with me
in the near dark
and how I revel
in the symphony of sounds,
low and sweet,
that you compose --
impromptu --
as I play you
like a
late night
cello.

I'll remind you
about the way
our eyes
lock and hold
at the moment of connection,
how time slows
in the aching, gasping heat
of our bodies mingling
and our souls meeting
in physical form.

At the point which
you
(eagerly)
ask me to go on,
I'll suggest,
slyly,
that the next time
you have the chance to back
me up against that alley wall,
pinning me there
with my arms above my head --
your hard thigh
pressed between my legs --
that you should
perhaps
TRY
to remember
that I'm wearing a skirt
...
and little else.

Self-immolation,
My Darling,
is more fun with two.