You tell me to take a bath, by candlelight and with music, and come down with nothing on at all.
You have me lay in the middle of the living room floor, and close my eyes.
There is music, quietly.
I feel your mouth on my ankles, and then each of my toes, the arch of my foot.
Your hands, the soft weight of them, start to touch my legs, the backs of my knees, the inner thigh.
You caress the Kitten on the outside, and the inside. You lick. So lightly. You spend a lot of time with her, but not in a way that leads me to believe this will turn sexual. You are giving me erotica. Slowly.
You touch the parts of my tummy that make my cringe. When you see me wince, you kiss where you are touching, your fingers move over my mouth, as if to hush my neurosis.
You kiss my sides. You touch my back, my neck, my breasts, my ears, my face, my hair.
You whisper ‘I love you’ once. You have taken so much time. There is no rush. There is no expectation. There is only you, studying me, slaying me with your care, your attention, your adoration.