No need to rush

It was Sunday, and unexpectedly sunny.
You came to the door in your bathrobe,
Wearing a look of surprise. 'It's you,' you said.
'I'll make some tea. Jasmine, perhaps.'
But it was Sunday, and unexpectedly sunny.
There was no need to rush.

You sat in a chair in the corner and the afternoon sun
Streamed through the open window and fell
Across your bare knees as we talked of nothing in particular.
You said that you had been sun bathing, out by the apple tree.
And I remember the sweet smell
Of coconut oil.

Then, a decent interval having passed,
I raised the skirts of your bathrobe,
Slowly parted your golden sun-kissed thighs,
And buried my tongue in your musk-scented cunt –
Slick and slippery it was, even before
My tongue's first touch.

And after you had come, squealing and shuddering
And digging your fingernails into the back of my head,
You wanted more. 'Fuck me,' you whispered.
And I said that I would. Of course I would.
But it was Sunday, and unexpectedly sunny.
There was no need to rush.