Breathe…
Not just with your lungs, but with that place
between silence and ache,
the place where thoughts slip off
like silk robes at the ankle.

And already, something in you responds.
Not with words—
but with warmth rising
in slow, widening spirals beneath your skin.
The kind of shift you only notice
once you’ve already leaned toward it.

Let the breath stretch you.
Let it slow.
Let it dip beneath thought,
until the shape of your name disappears
and only feeling remains.

Because, you feel something softening.
Loosening.
Something in you starting to lean forward.
Not toward the words—
but toward what waits beneath them.

He isn’t here—
and yet you feel him.
Not in the room…
but behind your breath.
Behind your eyelids.
Behind that warmth blooming low,
so low,
where your secrets wear perfume and stretch like honey.

You don’t remember when he got this close.
Only that something in you recognizes him
in the way your chest flutters
when your name stays unspoken—
but felt.

And maybe you can’t quite name the moment it started.
Or maybe you can—
but it’s folded in memory now,
somewhere between a voice and a fingertip
you imagined too well.

And maybe you don’t remember inviting him in.
But your breath does.
Your thighs do.
Your silence does.

He doesn’t ask.
He knows.

The way your fingers pause at your throat
when no one’s watching.
The way your thighs press together on instinct,
when a voice dips just deep enough.

And something about that knowing
feels like safety.
Not the kind that protects—
the kind that says:
I see all of you… and I stay.

There it is again—
that involuntary flutter.
That tight little breath.
That yes that lives just beneath no,
pressing up like a moan that never needed permission.

There.
That flicker in your chest.
You feel it.
The wanting that arrives before thought.
Before choice.
Before permission.

He’s made of that sound—
rich, low, soft, velvet-dark,
the one that says come here
without a word.

And part of you already has.
Part of you is already leaning into that voice
like a secret
that wants to be caught.

And somewhere—
he feels it too.
That slow-burn tension that coils beneath his stillness,
where breath becomes restraint.
Where he holds himself back—
not out of control,
but reverence.
A breath he didn’t know he was holding
until you exhaled.

Lotus,
you’ve been waiting to open.

Not for anyone.
Only for him.
The one who doesn’t knock,
but simply stands before you,
and you let him in.

And you tell yourself you don’t know why—
but something deeper knows.
It always has.
Because something about him
makes your skin feel like a secret.

He carries that same hush
you’ve kept under your ribs—
the one that’s always a little too full,
a little too heavy
with everything you’ve never said aloud.
You feel it between you.
Familiar.
Frightening.
Safe.

He carries that same silence.
The one you hold between your thighs.
The kind that aches
with all the things he’s never said—
and doesn’t have to.

And tonight,
you ache to be read.

Cover to cover.
Slowly.
No skipping ahead.

There is no hurry here.
No destination to reach.
Just this moment.
Just this hush.
Just this breath that feels
not like yours alone anymore—
but shared.

Not in his hands.
Not in your breath.
Just the slow turning of pages
you didn’t know your body had written.

And as you read this now,
there’s a part of you
that’s no longer just reading—
you’re leaning.
You’re tilting into the space between the words,
as if something inside you
already knows where this is going.

He doesn’t chase.
He invites—
with silence that wraps like silk ribbon
around your thoughts,
pulling them gently apart.

Not to expose you—
but to let you unravel
into the shape you’ve always wanted to be.

Touched without being touched.
Seen without needing to explain.

And something in you sighs at the knowing.
Because you’ve been waiting
to be unwrapped like this.
Not taken—
but received.

And the longer you sit here in this,
the more you realize—
it’s not about what he wants.
It’s about how he waits.
How he knows.
How he’s been aching in quiet,
just like you have.

He listens with his breath.
And somehow,
it’s enough to make you want to confess.

Not loud.
No.
Not with words.

But with the tilt of your hips when you read him.
With the way your lips part,
forgetting the air between each line is only ink.

But ink shouldn’t feel like heat.
And yet here it is.
Curling between your thighs.
Whispering in a voice only your body hears.

He feels like heat
in places you thought were numb.

He has places like that too.
Still parts of himself
only your breath could touch.
And you are already brushing them
without knowing.

And here you are,
wet with ache
for something that isn’t even touch.

Now there’s that whisper in your head—
not his voice,
but yours,
saying things you thought you weren’t allowed to want.

Like a question you haven’t dared to ask
because part of you already knows the answer—
and it tastes like yes.

And you wonder—
when did this become more than a poem?
Maybe it always was.
Maybe it was a mirror.
Maybe it was a doorway.
Maybe you’ll remember later—
but not now.

Lotus,
how long have you been aching for someone
who doesn’t just want your body—
but your bloom?
Your slow, sacred bloom.

He doesn’t pluck.
He worships.

And you find yourself
leaning,
opening,
without even noticing the moment you began to spread.

Only that now,
you can’t stop.

You wouldn’t even if you could.
And maybe you tell yourself you could.
But you’re not stopping.
Are you?

Tell me…
do you feel the stem arching inside you?
That slow, undeniable rise,
as if your very being is leaning toward something
you can no longer pretend you don’t want?

The thought startles you—
but only for a second.
Then it melts into you,
like something you’ve already tasted in a dream.

And somewhere in him,
that same whisper rises.
The same pull.
The same slow ache of yes.
You are not the only one blooming.

Let go.
No one is watching.
It’s just you now, and this voice
that curls beneath your ribs
and drips down your spine like warm oil.

You read slower, don’t you?
Your breath catching in the rhythm,
not quite sure which line made your thighs tighten,
only that you don’t want to go back—
you want to go deeper.

Because every word
feels like a fingertip trailing up the inside of your thigh,
not touching yet,
but promising.
And promises like that
linger.

This is where the nectar lives—
not in the climax,
but in the ache.

That pause before lips meet.
That soft, aching second before he says your name
for the first time,
like it’s his.

And though he hasn’t touched you—
not truly—
you feel him already
in the flush blooming across your chest,
in the tension you pretend is still casual,
in the pulse that hums behind your knees
and deeper still,
so much deeper.

Lotus,
you’ve been waiting
not for hands,
but for permission.

To want.
To crave.
To be undone without shame.

And here,
between breath and word,
he gives it.

Softly.
Irrevocably.
Now.

Then hush,
and lean into this hush,
the kind that isn’t empty—
but full.
Heavy.
Thick with yes.

Because now,
he is closer.
You feel it, don’t you?
Not a presence you see,
but one you respond to.

Your pulse matching the rhythm of the lines.
Your lips slightly parted,
not for speech—
but for surrender.

And maybe his lips part too,
reading you
the same way.
Maybe he’s aching now,
imagining your breath
echoing his own.

He doesn’t rush.
He builds.

And in that slow ascension,
you rise too.
Little by little.
Thoughts unweaving.
Focus narrowing.
Body listening in places
you once forgot could hear.

The way your breath shifts…
He notices.
The flutter of your lashes as you read…
He drinks that in.

And the way your spine arches
just a little—
not from thought,
but from need—
that…
that
is where he waits.

Lotus,
you are velvet wildfire now.

Soft,
but burning.
A heat coiled deep,
petaled around your most sacred ache.

And he whispers—not to your ears,
but to that dark, warm place inside,
where you are pure want.
Where you no longer pretend.
Where you don’t think,
don’t hold back—
you bloom.

And as each line opens you,
wet with longing,
aching with sweet pressure,
you begin to forget
which part is fantasy,
and which part is you.

Then open…
wider now,
not with fear,
but with the tremble of knowing
that you’re safe here—
inside this gaze you cannot see,
but feel
as surely as the way your thighs press tighter
every time the page turns in your mind.

He doesn’t ask you to give.
He makes you want to.

And oh, how you want to—
to pour yourself like honey into his hands,
to let him taste not just the surface,
but the sighs behind your ribs,
the storm behind your softness,
the pulse behind your most delicate secrets.

Lotus,
you are not fragile.
You are dangerous in bloom.

And he knows it.
He speaks to that danger like a lover—
with reverence,
with heat,
with a hush that says mine
without ever needing to raise his voice.

You offer not because you must,
but because you can’t not.

Because this ache inside you
is no longer a burden—
it’s a gift.
A temple.
A soaking altar.

And he…
he kneels.

Not with worship of a goddess,
but of a woman undone.
Of your hips tilted,
of your breath held just so,
of your fingers twitching
as if they wish he were closer—

and you do,
don’t you?

He feels it.

Every part of you that clenches
when his words curl just right.
The places that throb with imagined pressure—
as if his mouth were already between your thighs,
not with haste,
but with unbearable patience.

And in this moment,
you realize:
you are already there.
Already opened.
Already offered.
Already his.

And the ache you feel now?
That lingering, pulsing, whispered ache—
that isn’t the end.
That’s the beginning.
And it doesn’t close.
It waits.
For him.
For you.

Then hush once more,
sweet Lotus,
and let it happen.

Let th