You bring it out of me,
the ravenous animal
that smirks at caution,
the creature that follows
your unmistakable scent.

The palm that relishes
your cry from the sting,
still trembling from my palm
printed upon your naked flesh. 

The braille raised along your body,
gooseflesh carefully read with a tongue,
memorizing one taste after another,
patiently nearing the trail that glistens,
drips from between your wide open legs.

You bring it out of me,
the covetous wolf stalking
your pheromones curling
in the air like an unseen helix,
the scent of what belongs
to me and no one else.

The lips that move up your neck,
whispering that you are only mine
those four letters we know well,
reinforced when driven deep inside you.

Sheathed within your writhing form,
stretched with every quickened thrust,
cries and growls grow indistinguishable,
the utterances of unleashed animals
screaming into a blissful oblivion
any other would mistake as menacing.

You always bring it out me,
the certainty that a wolf,
insatiable and protective,
possessive and tender,
forever dwells within.