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In paint i want to immortalise her, my afflatus. In that position, alluring, smouldering, sizzling hot. Not in the conventional manner, i shall do this in my mind, fuck punctilio, paint always too tousled and tends to eclipse some salient engagement.

She divests herself of the robe that obscured her exquisite curves, slowly. She discards it over the side of the bed and lie there, on her side with her chin resting in her cupped hand, elbow digging into the soft duvet. Revelling in its soft caresses her baby soft skin, senses heightened by the glow of the flickering warm light of the dozen candles around the bed.

The soft curve of her bosom, welling from under the most luscious tips, bijou, erect, alert, a lovely shade of chocolate, over that soft ever so slightly convex belly around the most fantastic curvaceous hips indicative of virility and a promise of fecundity a rarity at best.

To the pinnacle of her feminine grace, a rivulet of hair, a landing strip perchance? Indicative of the presence of an abundance untold lying within the valleys hidden between taut thighs and gorgeous legs rising into a smooth round firm pair of cheeks, divine in their proud pliant poise.

His throat, suddenly dry, liquids soaked up by quickened breathing, shifting position, a sip of the glass of iced water in a tumbler in his hand, dripping to the deep plush carpeting, forgotten when his eyes lock with hers, brown, inviting, deep, a black hole, filled with desire, beckoning.

The glass abandoned on the night table he glides onto the bed, his eyes never leaving hers as he unfurls a single feather, stroking her shoulder, down over her breast slowly over the undulations of her tummy, towards her hips, over her deliciously aromatic….

| my aphrodisiac is you | katie melua |

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