Spicy Hot
The scent of us is everywhere.
Long after, when breath returns to us, I roll onto my side, never leaving her, and I curl her against me. Her head finds its place on my shoulder, her hand rests on my heart.
We don't speak. The language of caresses is exhausted. There is only the crackling of the dying fire, and the beating of our hearts slowing, together, in the night that envelops us. The feast is over. But the appetite remains, transformed, softer and deeper. A hunger for eternity.