There are those nights that you both wake in the same instant—where you turn to each other in the dark, hands searching, lips aching for yet one more kiss.
The love you made earlier still clings to you, a delicate scent on your skin, a delicious memory that lingers.
Her softness is something that you never tire of, as is the urgency of her need for you. She never tires of your caress, never complains when your hands turn rough, always says please and smiles her agreement to your desires.
You are bewitched, you are lost to her—there is no road that will lead back to when you did not know her.
It is her heart that you so admire—it is tender yet devilish, compassionate and strong—it is fallen to you, and she trusts it to your care.
Now warm with sleep, you unravel her chemise, twisted around her silken body. She moans and attempts to help you while you pull it over her head and reveal to your eyes what you so desperately want.
You never tire of that moment when you see her stretched out languidly on the bed—she is a canvas for you to paint on, surrendering to your wickedness.
You want her because she looks too innocent to be loved in the way you prefer. You love her because she hides her darkness so well. You love her because she know that she owns you and pretends that she has no power at all.