Texture of Darkness

There was no moon,
but no moon was needed.
Skin gleamed white in the night,
but not the cold, hard whiteness of bone, no...
She was pulsing;
           luminescent in her paleness;
the curves and valleys of her body
threw shadows, creating dappled darkness
beyond the night's own.
With fingertips, he traced her slopes,
slowly; a stranger in a strange land,
exploring each rise and fall of curves,
skimming sleek, smooth skin
that begged to be tasted.
Night air moved lightly,
an invisible dancer in the room,
carrying her scent; the richness of fruit and flowers,
and a deeper, darker flavor;
          of just her; skin, breath, heat.
She shivered deliciously when moisture
alighted upon skin, smiling as the ink
embedded in her flesh was traced by his tongue;
a warm, wet tattoo that mimicked her own.
She wondered if
her dragons might come to life under such care,
responding to the call from another.
He wanted a deeper taste and bit
into softness; she moangrowlpurred,
        low and deep in her throat;
primal invitation and demand together.
Acceptance came in languorous motion,
sliding into warmth,
                    wetness,
                          the dark...
They froze when fully enveloped, embraced
within each other; a tableau of stopped time.
And then it broke,
as they moved like waves;
crashing, thundering, savage;
purposely lost in decadence
and the texture of unappreciated darkness...