All she can think about is how he stayed hard, and how he felt in her mouth as she caressed him with the length of her tongue, taking him once more. He came again.
The thought passes.
Her mind clear, she straddles the man in front of her and smiles.
She smiles more broadly to feel his breath change as he swells forward to meet her, to take her in. She leans back, way back, and senses his gaze as it moves up her body, from the muscle of her thighs trapping him on either side,
up from the cradle of her sex,
up from her navel,
up between her full breasts,
up her throat to where her lips are just parted,
her eyes closed in some internal play. Play. Play, she had said, is her favorite word. She is very, very good at play.
She places her hands on his shoulders and hovers above him, feeling the slight tremor of electricity running through him. It excites her. She is very careful of the live current flowing between them. She strokes it and it purrs like a kitten. Even she loses track sometimes, thinking about swelling and straining.
“I respond to desire. To someone wanting me,” the words echo.
The thought passes. She is brought back to the moment.
She is a mirror.
Ecstasy even can become familiar.
A moment is technically made up of 90 seconds. Someone said that recently and it intrigues her.
So often we let the moments pass, thinking of them like instants, like a blur.
But really a moment is the measure of something much more—
A dance, a glance,
enough light to catch the reflection of that ethereal bridge between hearts, light bouncing off of a gesture of play,
a fantasy, or–
a poem.
The thought passes. The song ends.
She smiles at him again. They linger a moment.