Coffee and Biscuits

It had begun. 

The obsession. 

Less than two weeks of consistent conversation, earnest questions and giggly exchanges

and I was lost.

I didn’t stand a chance against his folds,

so plush and inviting were they 

that before I could think I had sipped

on him.

He smelled like strength, magic and beauty. 

I wanted to wear him on my skin.

We hadn’t met. 

But our minds had been in attendance with each other.

He felt clean and pure and he sounded like coffee and chin chin, and sugar and mint.

I really wanted to know him. 

I had to sit on my hands to keep from ripping his layers off. 

Prayed for patience and perseverance’s caress as I learned to be content with the slow unwrapping of him. 

I had never before hungered for the imprint of someone. 

I wanted to give myself to him.

I wanted him to hunt me down and claim me as his bloody spoils. 

I wanted an impossible eternity with him.

I needed control. 

Yet I sat pliant, docile in the lap of submission. 

Each night as I fell, into sensual carnivals of fantasies and carnal love making between us I realised I was slipping into what couldn’t be. 

I knew

That if I let him,

He would see me.