She beckons – demands attendance and wanton with hunger I obey.
Ivory fine, like the brush pressed into my hardened palm, she settles heedlessly between my tense thighs. With only two thin veils separating modesty from passion, I pray my thoughts do not betray us. Bound by desire I wonder: Is she immune to the flames that kindle my flesh?
As water to my fire, she speaks of history, our future and my name. Stroked by her voice I’m wanton no more, but wanting – craving more than silken skin and succulent lips.
Her coquetry has shaped this man into a king.