Author: WildandLovely

When I’m standing a breath away from you, bring your hands to my back and pull my lips to yours. Wrap your arms around me so as to stifle out all space between us. Trace your fingers up the curve of my back until silk meets skin. There’ll be a zipper there. Give it a tug.

Smooth your hands under my bodice, cupping my breasts as the fabric falls away. Lap down to the hinge of my neck and suck it enough to bruise as the hair on my arms raises and the blood rushes to my face and my nipples stand tall under your palms, which become fingertips brushing just gently enough to make me gasp in your ear.

Run your hands down the gooseflesh of my back, warm with wanting you, to the curve of my arse. Dig your nails into the softness there; clutch me close to you as the last of my modesty hits the ground. Pull me far enough into you that I can feel how much you want me—then lean into my ear and tell me. Read more »

It’s only afternoon, but the bright English sun is giving out as we climb off the ice, wobbly-legged but laughing—me, at your unwilling attempt, and you, at me—and wander off back in the way of my flat.

Somewhere in between your rambling, you slip your hand into mine, as if I’d ever not notice your heartbeat in your fingers in mine. I clasp it gratefully, and in a mulled-wine-induced fright of courage, bring your arm up and around my shoulder. Your eyes widen, then immediately crease with joy, which you clumsily try to obscure with a story about so-and-so someplace back in time.

I don’t share your ability to “play it cool,” so I stop in the middle of the street and pull you down to me, snogging you senseless in the middle of the South Bank, to several huffs from passing strangers. When I finally take my tongue from between your lips to give you some air, you simply hug me to your chest and tuck your chin above my head.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, little one.”

As if to confirm, I lick a stripe up your neck. “OI.” You pull away to chastise, “Not out in the open!” Read more »

I’m not feeling sultry or mysterious or particularly clever, and fantasizing about tongues and cocks and clits just isn’t filling up that absence of you today. 

What I really want is your mouth on my forehead, the world’s softest kiss. 

I want you to reach for my hand when we’re walking side by side down Piccadilly, because you’re 2% afraid I’ll stumble on a walk I’ve made for years and get swallowed by the world’s slowest black cab army, or maybe because you think you can handle telling just these strangers on the street in your own quiet way, “Look at her; she’s mine.” In any case, my fingers tighten between yours like a vice, because. Well.

I’ve missed you. 

And yeah, I’ve survived this time by willing my hand to become your hand, pulling on my hair every time my back arches from the sheets, but all I can seem to hunger for today is the soft, deft parting of my hair into strands to be carefully, awe-struck-edly plaited. 

It’s the little ways you worship me I’m craving.  Read more »

It started with a finger tracing my flyaways, too short to join their friends in my ponytail, a finger that didn’t stop running past my ear, down my cheek, to the corner of my mouth.

It started with a question, which was quickly answered with lips parting, tongue curling, light gasping, vicious swearing. It started with you standing stock-still, as if afraid to scare *me* off, even as I jumped to your chest, wrapped my arms around your neck, settled my weight into your shocked but steady hands.

It started with a vicious shag on your work bench, your incessant apologies in my ear as my ass dragged against sawdust, you hadn’t thought I’d be here, you hadn’t thought—if you had thought—and I can’t help but laugh because of course it’s a nightmare but it’d be worse if you stopped, if you weren’t slamming home deep inside me with every tick of the second hand, and you think I’m laughing at you, and all I can do is kiss your confused, slightly helpless face as I pull you back into me, clenching myself around you. Read more »

I ask, winding the hair that’s fallen from its tie. There’s a pause at the end of the line. Every minute of our calls costs, but we’re still finding our footing, so we allow the time. 

Your typically upbeat voice finally quips out, “Can you be more specific?”

“Do I show up in your dreams?” I notice I’m biting my nail, move my hand to the couch, sit on it to keep still.

“Sometimes.”

I fight the urge to run—where, I don’t know. I’d be silly enough to bring the phone with me anyway, running from you with you on the line to hear my panting.

“What do I do?” I’m going to vomit. I’m 100% sure I’m going to vomit.

Another pause. Fuck me, I think, fuck I’ve fucked it I’ve gone and just fucking fucked it—

“I’m not sure I could tell you.”

Oh. Right. 

“You can tell me anything.” It’s true. I say it to remind you, and to remember that we have something solid underneath us. I can’t feel the ground, but it’s somewhere. Read more »

**30.8.19**

“I just need to hold you”
you say
thigh around my waist
hips an ocean apart
staring into my hair as if it will have the answer
but I need no translation
what you mean to say
is
“I just need to belong”
is
“I need something that is mine.”

I ease back into you.

“Yours.”

Wind my calves around your shins.

“Yours.”

Float my hand to the back of your head,
pulling you into my neck,

“Yours.”

You breathe shakily as I turn within your grip
which is quickly becoming a vice
my nose presses to your nose
Yours
my lips to your ear
whisper
Yours

my hands to your hands
to my chest to my stomach
Yours
your thigh to my cunt
Yours
my arms around you
all around you

this moment, baby,
these feelings,
this life.

Yours.

​

**4.4.19**

“Can you feel that?”
Just the head.

“Yes,” I laugh, “I can feel that.”

After we’ve come, we’re quiet enough to hear the dim music.

While you catch your breath:
“Can we stay like this?” Read more »