I'm your big spoon,
your legs bend where mine begin,
tucked in a velvet hush,
curved in the drawer of midnight.

Hips meet hips,
limbs like language,
your ass curves into me,
perfectly placed by muscle memory.

My hand slides under your shirt,
fingertips graze your nipple,
circle, twist, tug—release,
you arch and softly gasp.

"Spork me," you whisper wickedly,
your voice thick and breathy,
already soaked with promise,
and my tines melt into your sway.

I grind slowly behind you,
pressed between your cheeks.
You part your thighs,
as I hungrily fill the space.

We rock,
breathe together,
the slick sound of us,
skin to skin.

I slip my hand lower,
finding your center,
silken and swollen,
I feel your pulse.

I circle,
press,
swirl in rhythm,
from instinct and ache.

Your moan unfurls.
I bite your neck.
I grunt a vow,
a push and a please.

Your hips buck,
as my fingers slide in,
my palm pressing,
as you squelch a wet reply.

Harder, harder,
your body taut,
and legs quiver,
your head falls back into my shoulder.

You cry out,
and try to swallow,
and I feel it,
your whole body clenched around me.

I want to feel every pulse,
every ripple,
keep you on that shuddering edge,
for as long as possible.

Spooned,
sporked,
spent,
and still trembling.