That slow burn, that starts at the lips
now deserted by his lips
The play of fingers trailing its way,
down the arm setting the hair on
*pause*
That slow, fire that he strokes,
taking his time letting that finger
drift ever so slowly and deftly,
to places already a flame
*pause*
deserting the warmest place, bypassing
that hot flowing river
seeking mountain peaks that are far too
sensitive when left in the cold air
*pause*
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