Still in the way of new-love vigor, spirit and season of seeming never-end found, restored, and lived anew in miracle of middle-age, spirit yearned again.
Morning way in lead to desire of noon, hearts strongly drawn again; sweep of her body, lift of her ass, take of strong and fast; deep heat-rose hue over whole of fronts open to other in sight and press; backfall of her head, love-braced again, vocal beyond low of morning’s way; sun’s high-perfect, light of the world; levities still in their after while holding to knowing, soon, they’d be again.
“I can’t help it…” he told.
“Then don’t,” she answered absent judgment or air of worry. “It is a blessing to be wanted. It is a blessing to be shown…” meekened at her words.
She held to his arm, fingers’ grasp to his triceps and palms and thumbs in hold to outer sides. Holding, her body curled nearer, face forward in lean and seek; lips’ touching to his, warm and gentle, assurance of her tongue in caress of tell that left them both in smiles.
“I mean it,” she told. “I love it…” she shared knowing he did too.
Her kiss again, tongue’s caress in assure. His rise. His fill. Low-touch and her sense, her body further curled, cradle’s widen—more than touch-sense—as they restored in strength and strong-heart way of season’s never-end.
