Moths
They’re like moths to a flame, the flame of each other, heat radiating between them like a flickering candle.
She grabs him fast, pulls him close. She’s a reaction to him and he to her, unspoken, automatic, like atoms colliding toward an explosion.
They’re completely drawn to each other, the flame between them, their dance isn’t subtle, or delicate, it’s powerful, and beautiful. She takes him inside her, pulling him toward a place outside of this world, a place without conscious thought, a world wholly their own, a place of heat and only the feeling of being deep within her. She asks him to come with her, for her, she wants it so badly, aches for him, begs for him to fill her with liquid-fire. They’re dancing a dance of heat, sweat, skin touching skin, a dance of ecstasy rising, falling into decadent nothingness.
She pulls him close, deep inside her. He comes like she asked, like he always does and always will. They’re like moths to a flame, the flame of each other, white-hot, unending.
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