Honey-Tinted Treasure

The fact of your recent visit to the lake was revealed in the honey tint of your skin peeking out from under your rolled up sleeves. I could have stared at your forearm for hours. Perhaps the hair on your arm, above your wrist and up further, has always been that illuminated hue of gold and I had been immune. In that very moment that I was held captive by the sight of it, by the sight of you. I imagined the honey, the gold: the treasure if I were to touch your cool, then ever-warming, skin.

My mind’s eye begins the story of my needy finger tips wending their way along your arm. I want to be blind and read you like the Braille book that you are, that you would be to me. New chapters draw me in: the roughness of your sharp elbow, the musky forest where your arm meets your utterly smooth chest, the hollow where your ribs meet well above your belly button. You are a novel that I cannot put down, will not put down, will lie to my boss and call in sick to finish, leaving each page dog-earred and meticulously consumed.

I am overcome by the imagined sensation of what each section of your delicious body would taste like: the lull of sweet as my lips graze yours, seeking and confirming our mutual delight; the sting of your unshaven cheek as my own cheek slides across, then nudges, then pushes into yours; the tease of sour as I nip, then bite, the nape of your neck and chew the lobe, my breath hot and weighty in your ear; the flirt of salt that lingers on your shoulder blades, each jutting out as I grasp your arms behind your back, an enticing resistance urging us onward.

I see the moist notations my tongue traces in the margins as I move downward along your spine, each vertebrae sighing as my sweet breath passes and hovers, teasingly, there at that delicate place where your one back becomes two palmfuls of flesh which I hold with a rather gentle force with my hands. The smooth texture of your hips, solid and firm under kisses from my parted lips bouncing as I turn your body from back to front, cover to cover, to bring a swirling, languishing, and passionate infusion of tongue, lips, and breath to your navel.

I am wet. I cannot go on. I blush at the thought of putting to paper what else my mind’s eye has conjured. Perhaps I have not made good on my promise to complete the novel of your enthralling body.

Or there remains a sequel yet to be written.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston