Minefields

It's another strangled January,
The third to be exact. and I still
haven't gotten over your touch,
or the shame of giving in,
or the desire to do it again.

I watch alien hands crawl over me
try to fulfill the want in my bones.
They fumble and trip hoping to
see my mouth part, to hear
my moans, but all they see
is an empty pretense, a masquerade
that begs the touch of another.
A touch of you.

How do I forget your fingers,
dripping lust against my neck,
that had me biting my lips till it bled,
how do I forget the caresses that
appeared unbidden on my spine, and
I knew then what it felt to be touched by lightning.

The wrongness of it,
the rightness of it, all in waves after
waves of your caresses, drowning my
conscience, in desire. Of something more
than physical. To be lost and led,
drowned and complete.
The beginning of surrender.

Your tongue against my skin,
awakening buried fantasies, invoking
a passion I didn't know existed within me.
Teasing me, pushing me, making me
want to beg for something I knew
I shouldn't do.

My nipple in your mouth,
'Bite it. No, don't, we shouldn't.
Just suck me already.' My body
already astride on yours, reflexively,
involuntarily grinding my hips
against your hard member, wanting
it where it isn't allowed to be.
Grinding harder with the incessant
cries of 'No we shouldn't.'

And finally, the release,
the culmination of something cosmic.
Rippling off orgasm after orgasm.
My body, the minefield to your touches.
My screams, the birthing of thunder.