Bird in the thicket Stories

I want to be where your breath forgets itself, where the quiet between your words darkens with wanting, where your skin, a field at dusk, grows fevered under my mouth. There, in the hallowed shallows of your body, I would linger— where the bones narrow, where the warmth pools, where the low gasp rises like a bird startled from the thicket. Your thighs are a threshold I cross on hands and knees; your belly, a vulnerability...