The Wicker Burned Beneath You by Eugene Noale
You came to me last night when the whir of traffic had calmed. I laid shirtless and sleepless on the wicker daybed. The porch still held the heat of the day, but the breeze was nice. You slid your breasts the length of my abdomen, up to where our nipples met. You dropped a tender kiss on my mouth but my thirst for you was too deep for one embrace. My hands held your face and strongly I sucked what moisture I found in your succulent lips. Your points pierced my chest. And the soft abundance of your breasts blurred my mind. Teeth replaced tongue and there was nothing left to do but consume you. Recumbent, you spread your thighs. The white of your dark eyes glowed in the moonlight. Soon the air around us trembled from the heat. The water of my tongue was never enough to quench your flesh. Each lick lit a new flame, building a fire that burned down your thighs and swirled like a maelstrom of molten steel in your belly. You punctuated the cricket song with pops of gasping breath, then the howl of a woman who’s been sucked a little too hard, a little too long, at exactly the right moment. And as you howled, the wicker burned beneath you. But quench the flame we did, with sweat shed as our skin slid slick and rhythmic together. The sometimes breeze cooled our sticky bellies. I fingered the shape of your breast and filled my head with your scent, unable to let you go. But the breeze took you anyway and sleep came for me.