Cravings
Her touch is nectar to his starving hands, flesh soft and fulsome between his palms. Her sweet earthy scent is ambrosia to his parched throat. But it's her kindness, her quick forgiveness, that fitting counterpoint to his aggression that draws him inexorably, as a moth to a flame.
Moon tickles down his face, slender fingers feather light.
"You're a good man, Eli," she whispers, and he swallows at the ineffable grace in her eyes. And then her hands are everywhere, creeping down, down, ah –
"You want that?" She mutters.
"More than you could ever know," he says, and kisses her.