Warm-blooded
Freedom in solitude
It’s cold outside— the kind of cold that begs for blankets and bodies. The fire's going, but it’s the thought of skin that keeps me warm. I wear silk, satin or leather under this hoodie. Just for me. Just in case. My thighs remember being held, my lips remember being claimed— and they wait, soft and parted, like an inviting cup of hot chocolate. The nights are longer now. So I dance in the kitchen, kiss my own shoulders i...