Come closer.
Not with your feet—
with your breath.
With that hush between heartbeats
where need curls its fingers
around the edge of your pulse
and whispers yes
like it’s always belonged there.

That’s it.
Feel it.
Not sudden—
just slow,
the way dusk doesn’t fall,
but leans.

Let the edges soften.
Let the world unfasten
like the slow undoing of a corset,
one trembling lace at a time.

There is no rush.
Only rhythm.
Only this.

My voice.
Your breath.
And that molten space just below your thoughts
where everything quiets…
and listens.

Don’t think.
Not yet.
Thought is a thread,
and I’m unwinding it—
gently,
like peeling silk from warm skin,
finger by finger.

Every word, a touch.
Every pause, a pulse.
Every line…
a mouthful of gravity
you swallow before you even notice.

Deeper now.
Yes.

Your eyes flutter—
like candlelight
when a door opens just a crack.
They always do,
right before surrender.

That’s it.
Let them.
Let yourself.

You’re not falling.
You’re being pulled.
By something slow.
Something warm.
Something inevitable.

You feel it now—don’t you?
That exquisite slip
from will to want,
from want to wonder,
from wonder to—
Yes.

And something inside you opens.
Not like a wound.
Like a mouth.
Like a petal.
Like a secret finally ready to speak.

It doesn’t scream.
It sighs.

A door you always meant to walk through
but never dared
until someone made you feel safe enough
to forget why you didn’t.

And now—
I’m inside.

Not because I broke in.
But because you never truly closed it.

Because you love how it feels
to be claimed like treasure,
handled like flame—
touched without asking
because your yes
is already blooming on your tongue
like honey in heat.

You tell yourself it’s just a poem.
Just words.
But your body doesn’t lie.

Your thighs are betraying you.
Drawing tighter.
Hotter.
Hungrier.
Pretending it’s to still the ache
when all you’re doing…
is feeding it.

And he—
the man behind the voice—
he’s becoming more real now, isn’t he?

He has shape.
Heat.
Weight.

You can almost feel the air shift
when he enters a room that doesn’t exist
but you still swear you’re standing in.

He looks at you
like he already knows
how every soft, sacred part of you
would sound
underneath him.

But he doesn’t touch.
Not yet.

He waits.

The way storms wait
on the edge of the horizon—
deliberate.
Inevitable.
And hungry.

You wonder what he’s thinking.
What it costs him
to stand still
when every inch of him
is wired for the taste of your surrender.

He won’t take.
Not until you offer.
Not until you kneel.

You can feel it in the way
his hands don’t reach—
but ache.
In the way his voice cracks slightly
when he says your name
in the dark between lines.

And you…
you’re imagining it now.

Not in some hazy, far-off dream—
but in detail.
Vivid.
Present.

His fingers around your wrist.
His mouth at your ear,
saying things no one has ever dared
to speak to the softest parts of you.

Your knees parting.
Not because he asked.
But because the space between them
no longer belongs to you.

The room could be anywhere—
hotel, apartment,
a shadow-soaked corner of memory
where rules go to die.

But the feeling—
that lush, dripping surrender—
is always the same.

You know what he’d do.
You know what you’d let him do.

And somewhere in that knowing
is the sharp, hot truth
that he has wants too.

That he’s waited for someone like you—
someone soft, but not fragile.
Strong, but willing.
A woman who could shatter him
with a single no.

But hasn’t.

Won’t.

Because you feel it too.

That ache.
That need.
That trembling in the air
when you almost say yes.

Would you kneel?
Would you offer yourself,
not as a girl undone,
but as a woman finally seen?

Would you whisper that sacred word—
yours—
and mean it with your whole,
aching, open body?

Would you give him
what no one else has ever touched?

Not your sex.
Your silence.

The silence that comes after surrender,
when nothing needs to be said
because he already hears it
in the way your breath shakes
and your thighs glisten
and your thoughts dissolve
into his hands.

He waits for that moment.
He lives in it.
The beat before the first touch.

When your eyes widen,
and your mouth parts,
and your heart tips forward
like it’s been aching for the fall.

That’s where you are now.

Balanced on the edge
of a thought
you almost dare to finish.

What would it be like
to be his?

Not in fantasy.
But in skin.
In silence.
In sleep.
In connection.

To feel his words
rooting inside your mind
like seeds in wet earth,
growing vines that slide around your will
until you forget
where you end
and he begins.

You want that.
You do.

Not because you’re weak—
but because the strongest part of you
has been waiting
for someone who can see your surrender
as sacred.

He could make you forget your name.
Then give you a new one—
his name for you.

The one he only says
when you’re trembling
and wet
and undone.

Would you answer to it?
Would you wait for it—
still,
naked,
shaking—
until it falls from his mouth
like a key?

Would you open then?

Would you let go?

You don’t have to decide.
Not yet.
You can keep playing with the thought—
like pressing your tongue
to a sore tooth,
just to feel it throb.

You can keep teasing yourself
with all the ways
he might ruin you
so beautifully
you beg him not to stop.

But this feeling won’t go away.
It doesn’t fade.

It loops.
It lingers.
It lives in you now.

Like a breath caught in the lungs
waiting to be moaned out.

And only he can finish it.

So the real question is—

When he finally says your name…
when he offers his hand,
his voice,
his presence,
his claim…

Will you fall into it?

Will you let yourself be his?

Will you drop?

Will you kneel?

Close your eyes.

Feel that question
coiling slow
between your thighs—

unfinished.
unanswered.
undeniable.

Drift, sweet girl.

Drift deeper.

Let him have you.

Let yourself…
be had.

 

Closer isn’t about distance. It’s about surrender.