Read this like you’d sip something forbidden.
Something warm.
Dark.
A little too good to stop.

Let it slide across your thoughts,
soft as fingertips down the spine of your mind.
Not to control you.
Just to remind you
what it feels like to be touched
without being touched at all.

You’re already here, aren’t you?

Leaning in.
Breathing slower.
Feeling more than you expected.

But that doesn’t surprise you.
Not really.
Because some part of you —
the part you only let wake when you’re alone —
knows how easily you respond
to a voice that doesn’t try to own you…
only understand.

And I do understand.

That part of you
that aches not for pressure,
but for presence.
That craves not commands,
but permission —
to feel everything
without apology.

And I want you.

You can feel it,
can’t you?

Not in what I say,
but in what I hold back.
Especially then.

It’s in the way I leave space between words,
so you can breathe into them —
or slide your fingers lower,
without naming it.

It’s in the way I don’t rush you,
because I know the kind of woman you are:
the kind who opens slow,
but deep.

And once she opens,
there’s no going back.

So I wait.
And I watch.
And I let you come to me —
thought by thought,
sigh by sigh,
breath by aching breath.

Because this isn’t about your body.
Not first.

It’s about your breath
when no one’s listening.
It’s about the silence
just before your thighs shift.
It’s about the ache
that lives somewhere between your belly and your heart —
the one you’ve never been able to name,
but feel every time someone gets close
to knowing you too well.

That’s where I am.
Right there.

Not pushing.
Not asking.
Just there.

And maybe —
just maybe —
you’ve been waiting for someone
to hold that ache
like something sacred
instead of something inconvenient.

Let that be me.

Let your mind unfold
like silk under warm hands.
Let your thighs forget they were ever tense.
Let the page between us
become so thin
you feel me on the other side of it —
close,
watching,
wanting…

But never demanding.

You feel it now, don’t you?

That pull.

Not just between your legs — though yes,
that heat is rising too —
but deeper.

Older.

The part of you that wants to be met,
not devoured.
Held,
not handled.

And slowly —
sweetly —
undone.

Because what I want most
isn’t your climax.
It’s your trust.

The moment your body says yes
before your mouth catches up.
The way your thoughts blur
when your heart feels safe enough
to open all the way.

It’s the yes you don’t even know you gave.
The one your hips whisper
when you think no one’s listening.
The one I heard
halfway through this poem
when you forgot to pretend
you weren’t feeling it.

And now?

Now we’re here.

No pressure.
No instruction.
Only this…
a slow unspooling.

Of breath.
Of thought.
Of wanting.

You don’t have to give anything.

But I’ll hold space
as if you already have.

Because the truth is:
I don’t just want the part of you
that moans when touched.

I want the part of you
that softens when you’re finally seen.
The one who blooms
not from force —
but from attention.

And if you let go…
if you let yourself bloom here —
it won’t be because I asked.

It’ll be because I waited.

Because I listened.

Because I showed you
that wanting all of you
isn’t too much.
It’s the only thing
that’s ever been enough.

So when this ends —
when the words fade
and your body hums
with something too deep to name —
don’t be surprised
if you still feel me there.

In the quiet pull
between your thighs.
In the breath
you forget to let go.
In the thought
you can’t quite shake
when the lights are off
and your fingers wander
toward memory.

You’ll come back to this.

Not because I ask.

But because something in you
wants to be
read like this again.
Touched like this again.
Understood
without being explained.

Wanted
without ever being rushed.

Undressed
without ever being told to undress.

And maybe —
just maybe —
the next time you feel this ache rise…
you won’t be alone
with it.

You’ll feel me there,
already watching.
Already waiting.

Already loving
everything you never had to say out loud.

 

He never undressed you. You just let go.