There’s a knot tied deep inside him, wound tight. Your touch would find it, your scent could reach it. The feel of you in his hands would loosen it. For without hesitation, you are quite simply stunning.

Sensual and intimately attractive. A picture, drawn, painted or taken. A statue carved, or from a soft clay, molded. A book, written, read, or stolen. A film, adult, raw and uncensored.

You unfold in his hands, your flesh, the naked pages of your own manuscript. He reads you; he writes his manifesto into your skin. You hear his commands telling you he needs you under his control.

A collar of soft leather hangs loose in his hand. The buckle open, patient, waiting to be worn. Everywhere, your body tingles with the promise of his passion. His eyes burning bright, loaded with dark desires and clandestine demands, his needs are so intense, his hands so firm and sure, his expression so tormented.

The thought of his hands held to your chest, to feel your heart race beneath their press, this fantasy unfolding from inside you.

His breathing grows heavier as his eyes lower to the heave and sigh of your lace layered breasts. One hand escaping, to caress the swell and the curve; so youthful and firm beneath a scattering of fallen leaf freckles that hang like a garland of woodland pearls, a confetti of the forest, waiting to be raked.

He loves how you gasp at the swell of these sensations, your senses charged with the static of his passion, his fingers flirting over the fringe, finding a well of deep seduction, your body arching, aching, arcing, igniting with the electricity sparking beneath his skin, and lit so bright behind the hazel filament of his woodland eyes.

From the inside out, he’s a forest catching fire. You sense his scent, both bodies a pyre of burning leaves, a kindling of bones, a tinder of lumber and muscle. You sniff the warm air caught between you both, sensing a wood smoke smoldering from inside you as you’re drawn together.

Giving in to the invisible things that make you feel so good with him, until you’re exhausted with his devotion. His voice carrying into your skin, reaching in and underneath, deep, centered, earnest and sincere. Your heart beating with his, your blood binding, bringing you both to a rush, your breathing coming through in rough gasps. Your fire starving for fuel and air, your eyes giving him oxygen.

You hear the intimacy inside you both, a combination unlocking, a confession sequestered in his voice, a whisper caught in his throat, his need growing as great as your, you whimper the words he cannot: “Come honey, come.”

His strength might very well be measured in the imperial pounds of the old country, a tortured torque of slow control, he’s pushing you back on to the bed, from where, in one even move, you’re lifting your hips, feeling his hands roam purposefully up over your thighs, pushing the silk of your gown onto your hips, feeling him want for every inch of you!

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