This is just one of them days.  Frustration is brushing his skin against mine softly, as if tenderly.

I can hear my own shivering. Sensation is moaning for release. My heart is squeaking like mice hiding on a cupboard. Muffling its own beat. Anticipating a chance to come out. Peaking out, peeping out, eager to taste the ambrosia a breath away from me. I am too afraid, too cautious. You are too precious to my touch but you are touching me. You are giving out the signs, a penchant to my desire.

You are there. Delectable skin against mine. Teasing taste. Breath is not breathing at all. The air is so tight. The space so small to contain desire; to contain you and I. You are bigger than I am. You’re feeding upon my desire.

 I am not releasing air. I am inhaling. Taking in the beautiful scent you are releasing. You are mine. Almost mine but not quite. You are for the gods. You are god. I am a mouse.