4 - The Way I Taste

You say you love the way I taste and how my hair looks when it’s tied up in a knot, sitting on the crown of my head. Your hands caress my hips, moving up and down. Up and down.

 You say you like the way my eyes look when I care about the person talking. You say they open up wide as if they’re hungry, starving for the next word. As if that next word could save a life, and I want to help in any way I can. You like that I listen and make you feel important. You like that I’m a woman who makes you feel like a man.

 You say that if I were an animal, I’d be a black cat. I’d cross in your path and make you suck in the cold air of the night. Maybe that means I’m bad luck. I’m seduction in its purest, rawest form. Maybe that makes me dangerous. I hold my head up high and walk by you, grace you with my presence, and you inhale a deep, long breath.

You say that I might also be a puppy, eyes wide open, pouting to get my way. And you give in; you always give in. I don’t have to beg or plead for much. You’re happy to give your life to me.

 You say I move like an assassin and act like one, too. I can assess the situation and sport a skin-tight black leather suit. And I look great in leather. I’m the embodiment of death and skill, danger and cunning. It’s just so easy for me sometimes.

You say you like the way I taste. You lick your lips and fingers, searching for one last drop. Maybe I’m a drug, and now you’re hooked. You say all of this while I lie there, naked in your arms, aware of the power I hold over you.