DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Her croons were all he required – a keening hum of contentment brewing from his chest, rising to meet her notes, echoes of rumbling throngs and knells. He scoffed and snorted her insinuation, a cat indeed, permitting more of a distracted haze of lust and satisfaction again, tormenting and teasing, leaning into her, her, and only her, mouth pressed, hungry, a constant, avaricious declaration on his lips. The depths of his eyes closed, and his figure melded and molded to feel: the rays of the sun, capturing them in his grasp, kissing over her infernal splendor, Icarus with his wings, falling along the plains of heat and plumes. Something about persuasion marked the corner of his mouth, in the curls of his hair, but in their ardent holds he really wouldn’t be able to recall if anyone asked. It was the longing venture instead, not enough, never enough, as if he couldn’t be sated, satisfied, more and more, give and give, take and take, languorous predilections and explorations because they could, had the time, had the world. His lips parted and let her in, followed on the same motions, on the same rhythms, interludes of passion and persistence, proffering everything all at once – hands rising away from her hips and gently coiling along the back of her head, cradling, fingers finding gilded tassels, intertwining along the interplay of gold. Only when she pulled away did he manage to come to any of his senses, and just barely on her devilish grin, gaze flicking back open to watch her lick her lips, growling, leaning forward, coming to snag her again with ruffian, roguish affection, yearning, riveting over his features – until laughter and a hum reached his ears, and he sat there, back in the depths of his chair, baffled and stunned. “I am not sweet,” spoken in a bewildered tone, snorting again, pondering where and when on earth he’d delivered such a message. Was it wrong to feel offended and slighted? Sweet grated at his senses, stifling back a grimace; likely a ruse to perceive a provocation out of him, landing squarely at his core.
Out of recoil and retribution, he rose from his seat, palms clinging to her hips and taking her with him, shifting to swing her in the air, legs dangling, before placing her back on the floor. Only then did he remember to hitch up his towel again, barely resting along his hips, tying it off to the side, an absent-minded thought. Then he meandered back to the basket, left haphazardly nearby, the mischievous penchants and inclinations returning to his face– bright eyes hastening in impish decrees, handing it back to her, to unveil, to reveal, while he collected the dishes.
Unite and spread the heart apart
