it happens somewhere in the moment
when you gently intrude your fingers
upon the back of his head
allowing them to wander his hair
stimulating willing skin
withholding all but your tongue’s tip
teasing him with glancing lips
your womanly softness
defined in that sacred place beneath the breast
pressed into the full length of him
that delicious instant you feel
the dam of his passions give way
all his blood and sense a torrent insisting
your thighs relent
to the poetry