and the wood creaks with him.
He lowers his head,
his mouth hovering, stalking slow.
His warm breath’s teasing my lips,
testing my patience,
daring me to cave first.
Then the rest of the world dissolves.
There’s no Type No. 45.
No New York City.
No space between us.
There’s only him.
His eyes, navy turned ink.
His mouth, slow and artful.
His breath that’s tangling with mine.
A muscle in his jaw pops.
He’s fighting, holding himself back.
He’s struggling.
So I lift onto my toes,
my lips barely brushing his.
A graze. A sigh. Hardly anything at all.
Andrew sucks in a breath,
lashes fluttering,
eyes slipping shut.
When I pull back,
his breath shudders out of him.
I lower back onto my feet.
And his mouth follows, chasing mine.
He breathes me in,
a lazy drag of lips over lips,
his mouth sweeping over mine so slow
