Wolf
Hunt
c.2002, Miriam M. Wynn
You smell
spicy, warm, and wet,
fresh from a shower, to my bed;
I undress you with a kiss, hovering sweet;
You were made for tender loving,
for a held breath, a wondering glance;
you were made to drive a girl wild,
to make her lose herself in romance;
Your rich locks slide beneath my fingers,
your smooth skin eases against my own;
you bake me like an oven,
and I roast with a satisfied glow;
I could roll like this for endless hours,
coat my body with the scent of you;
could nuzzle like a wolf cub,
seeking all my warmth from you.
But underneath that kind, evasive gaze,
there roams a body meant to hunt;
there roams a tongue that’s meant for torture,
and a set of fingers made to roam;
you push me down and heave above me,
you spread me wide, and storm right in;
you clutch me roughly, deeply, hugging,
even as you suck all of me in;
And all my hungry fear means nothing,
for you’re the wolf, and I’m done in.