You didn’t come here by accident,
did you?

No, lovely.

Something brought you.
Soft as the breath you feel right now
behind your ear.
Low.
Warm.
Unmistakably male.

You felt it before you even noticed it.
Before your breath changed.
Before your fingers paused on the screen.
Before your thighs pressed together
just a little tighter—
not because you meant to…
but because your body recognized something
your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

And now you’re here.
Still pretending you’re just reading.
Still pretending it’s just… a poem.

But it’s not.
Not to you.
Not anymore.

Because something’s happening.
Isn’t it?

A slow ache blooming between your thoughts—
warm, curling, curious.
The kind of ache
that doesn’t come from words.
The kind that comes from being seen.

This isn’t ink.
This isn’t fantasy.
This isn’t pretend.

It’s recognition.
And relief.
And just a little bit of fear—
that kind of fear that whispers:

“What if this is real?”

Because something in you already knows
what the rest of you hasn’t said out loud:

You weren’t just curious.
You were ready.

Ready to be found.
Ready to open.
Ready to feel someone press into the places
you’ve kept locked,
not for lack of desire—
but because no one else ever took their time.

But he does.

The man between the lines.

He doesn’t ask questions—
he already knows.

Not just what you show.
Not just what you let people see.
Not just the way you move—
but the way you pause
when someone gets too close.
The way you swallow your thoughts
before anyone can hear how deep they go.

He knows the part of you
you’ve learned to carry quietly.
The ache behind your smile.
The edges you’ve softened to survive.
The space you tuck your craving into
so it doesn’t disrupt
the lovely little life you’ve built.

But it’s still there.
Isn’t it?

That slow, holy heat.
That sacred hunger.
That need not just to be touched—
but to be understood,
heard,
opened,
held,
and then—
only then—
taken.

And god…
how long has it been
since someone waited that long?

So let yourself feel it.

The rhythm of the lines.
The way the breath catches
a little differently
each time he speaks
between the words.

You think it’s still you reading.
But it’s not.
It’s him.
Reading you.

Each flicker in your breath.
Each shift of your thighs.
The way your lips part
when your thoughts start to tangle
with your body.

He sees it all.

And he loves it.

Not because it’s polished.
Not because it’s perfect.
Because it’s honest.

Because you’re not performing—
you’re responding.

And that’s where your power lives.

This is different.
You feel it.
You don’t just want to be touched—
you want to be met.

In the place where your softness
has teeth.
Where your “yes”
isn’t whispered in shame,
but spoken like a crown.

And maybe that’s why
you’re still reading.

Even now.
Even though something in you knows
this won’t just arouse you.
It will change you.

He’s already in.
Isn’t he?

Not between your legs—
not yet.
Between your thoughts.
Your breath.
Your defenses.

And you let him in.

That’s the difference.
That’s the pride.

This isn’t being seduced.
This is you,
choosing to let go.

Because for once—
you don’t have to explain
what you need.

He already knows.

“That’s it,”
he murmurs,
somewhere just under your ribs.
“Don’t hide. I see you.”
“All of you.”

And you feel it.

Not as a compliment—
but as a claim.

Because he doesn’t just want your want.
He wants the silence around it.
He wants the parts of you
you thought were too much.
Too deep.
Too strange.
Too soft.
Too wild.
Too sacred.

He wants all of it.

And something in you
wants to give it.

Not because you should.
Because it feels good
to be the one he waits for.

And he does wait.
So patiently.
So reverently.
Because he’s felt it too—
what it means to rush the holy.

He has his own shadows.
You feel them.
Don’t you?

The places he’s been broken.
The ache behind the way he watches you breathe.
The hush between his words
that says:

“I won’t hurt what I long for.”

And maybe that’s what makes you ache now.

Not just the wanting—
but the trust.

That you can open.
That you can come apart.
That you can feel too much—
and he won’t flinch.

He’ll witness.
He’ll worship.

He’ll wait
for the moment your yes becomes
not something taken—
but something offered
with pride.

And god, how beautiful you are
when you open like that.

Not to please.
Not to perform.

But because you know
you were made for this.

For feeling.
For offering.
For choosing.

Because you are not a woman
who needs to be told.

You’re a woman
who already knows.

So don’t rush.

Let the words settle inside you
like fingers that already know
exactly how to touch.

Let your body adjust to the rhythm.
The slow spread of surrender
beneath your skin.

Notice your breath.
How deep it’s become.
How warm your chest feels.
How alive your thighs feel right now—
not because you moved them…
but because you let yourself feel them.

That’s the gift.
That’s the power.

And he sees it.
All of it.
And he stays.

Not because you asked.
Because you were ready.

So what now?

You’ll try to keep this moment.
You’ll want to remember it.
You might even share it—
quietly,
with someone who deserves to know
what this felt like.

“This one,” you’ll say.
“This one was different.”
“It was like he wrote me.”
“And I didn’t feel taken—I felt seen.”

And you’ll be right.

Because this wasn’t just seduction.

This was becoming.

You don’t belong to him.
You belong to the version of yourself
he reminded you existed.
The one who doesn’t apologize for longing.
The one who opens with pride.
The one who moans without shame
when the words feel just right
against her skin.

You’ll come back to her.

Because now—
you know where she lives.

Right here.
In these lines.
In the breathless space between thought and body.
In the touch of a man who knows
that what makes you beautiful
is not how you respond—
but how willingly
you choose to.

And maybe…
maybe that’s why
you haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Not just the words.
Not just him.
But the way it made you feel.

Like something had been waiting.
Sleeping.
Listening.
Ready.

And now it’s awake.

And you wonder—
quietly, deeply,
without even meaning to—
what it would feel like
if this wasn’t just a poem.

If one day,
somewhere,
you turned
and felt that same presence behind you.

The one who didn’t just read you—
but remembered you.

Would you lean back into him?
Would you let your eyes close?
Would you whisper
yes
this time out loud?

Or would you keep walking—
but slower,
knowing he’s there?

Would he follow?
Would he find you?

Would you let him?

And maybe…
that’s not something you have to answer yet.

Maybe tonight,
when you’re alone,
you’ll feel him again.

Not on your skin—
but beneath it.

A warmth.
A whisper.
A pressure
between your thighs
that feels more like a thought
than a touch.

And maybe your breath will hitch
at just the memory of being seen.
Of being chosen.
Of being read like this.

And that…
that’s where the rest begins.

Not here.
Not yet.
But in the place your thoughts
will wander next.

When your body
asks for more
before you even realize it.

And when your fingers
move on their own
and your lips part
as if someone were watching…

you’ll wonder.

What if he is?

And you’ll hope
—maybe more than you admit—
that he’s closer than you think.

 

You’ve met him before. You just forgot how deeply.