The Pulse Of Our Becuming

In the soft glow of tangled limbs,
we are bare, bodies entwined,
tongues tracing the curve of breasts,
lips finding nipples, licking, sucking,
as her fingers guide his hand to her breast,
pressing him into the softness, the ache,
while the other pushes his head between her thighs,
urging him to the place where heat pulses, where desire calls.

His mouth finds her, tongue tracing delicate lines,
sliding deep into the sweetness of her being,
tasting her honey, her essence,
as her body shudders beneath the weight of pleasure,
her breath catching, voice trembling in moans that fill the air.
Time slows as his lips trail lower,
tongue flicking, circling, savoring every inch,
clit kissed, licked, drawn into his mouth,
as pleasure builds, moans rising,
and love speaks in these primal whispers.

He lingers there, slow and deliberate,
his tongue a vessel for all the unspoken things,
sliding deeper into her soul,
until he drinks from the core of her,
where every secret longing lies.
Her hips rise, a silent plea for more,
as his fingers dance along her skin,
matching the rhythm of his mouth,
until she is lost in the pull of him,
the world dissolving, leaving only this—
the taste of her on his lips, the press of his body,
and the way they move as one,
flesh slick with sweat, thighs trembling,
the sacred poetry of lust and love entwined.

Desire hums through every vein,
a song of passion, of craving, of becoming,
and in this endless, breathless embrace,
we are more than flesh—we are fire,
devouring and devoured, whole in our desire,
consumed by the taste of one another,
the dance of need, of pleasure, of life itself.